Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Following Part 1 of Gil Grissom's Romance, this story begins after Sara's abduction. While we know how the story ends, this is what might have happened! Rated "M" because there is always some sweet smut.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The first chapter of Part 2! Keep GSR alive-leave a comment, a review, a few words!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 1**

"How do you feel?"

Sara Sidle stared at the doctor. Not a medical doctor but a psychologist hired by Clark County to see employees when someone decided they needed to talk—or in Sara's case when the Sheriff's office required it for returning to work.

Grissom squeezed her hand from where he was sitting beside her. While he wasn't required to be here, Sara had requested his presence. And since they had both been given two weeks off—two weeks of mandated 'no contact with the lab'—he had plenty of time to accompany her to every appointment she had.

"I feel good," Sara said as she attempted to adjust the sling and heavy cast on her arm.

The psychologist smiled and waited. Sara smiled back—and waited. The man's smile grew and when, after a full minute, there was no response, sighed, and looked at his notes for another long minute.

There was no doubt in Gil Grissom's mind that Sara Sidle would win this war of no-words.

"How do you feel about what happened in the desert?"

Her face remained unemotional, but Grissom felt the slight pressure of her fingertipsagainst his hand.

Sara took a deep breath. "Not bad. My arm aches. My face itches. Bruises are—are coming along."

The man sighed again, moving several papers back and forth. "Are you sleeping at night?"

From his place beside her, Grissom saw flashes of gold in the quick glance he got. He knew from experience that behind those flashes of fire came a deep, usually well-controlled, passion. Lacing his fingers between hers, he felt the tension for only a few seconds before she relaxed.

Sara Sidle had been a small child when she had learned to hide secrets from people with the same qualifications as the man behind the desk. A display of her emotions in front of a person she did not know would be seen as weakness, a failure, and yet, for all that she hid, Grissom believed she was recovering. At her request, they had driven to the desert and walked around the spot where Natalie had left her. Sara had been reticent until their drive home when she had seemed to dismiss her experience with "well, that's over."

Sara answered his question with, "I'm sleeping well. And tonight we're going to a benefit concert for the Gilbert Institute. Are you familiar with it?"

Grissom had promised his mother he would attend the opera performance before Sara's abduction—he had not mentioned it in days. And now, Sara was using it as her way of escaping the psychologist's prying questions. Her way of saying "Life goes on"; he suppressed a twitch of a smile.

"That's good—great—for you to get out," the doctor said with a well-pleased smile forming. "No nightmares, no restless nights?"

"I'm fine," Sara said. "I'm really fine."

A few more questions followed and Sara showed an unwavering attitude about her experience in the hands of a mad woman. Almost rehearsed, Grissom thought, as the psychologist handed her a release form to return to work.

Several hours later, Grissom adjusted a black shawl over Sara's shoulders.

"You look beautiful," he whispered, kissing her before she could disagree. She wore a dark wine-colored dress with a scooped neckline that provided a perfect frame for a gold chain necklace.

"I look okay?"

"You are perfect." He said what he believed. "You hair is cute." He touched a bouncy curl and kissed her again.

She scowled, saying, "I had to wear it like this when I was a kid—frizzy curls make me think I'm eight again."

Grissom's eyebrows lifted. "No, you don't look eight—you look beautiful."

It had been ten days since Natalie Davis had pinned Sara underneath an automobile and left her to die. The shawl covered her cast and sling, the dress covered most of the bruises and abrasions but Sara's face bore witness to the cruel violence of a possessed serial killer.

They—he had been advised that her recovery depended on his attitude as much as hers—were on leave for two weeks. He would admit to no one that it had been a difficult time, especially the first week. Sara could barely walk for several days; unable to dress or bathe herself with one hand, he had quickly learned to be her care giver. Gradually, over the past few days, he had seen improvement—her smile returned. And with approval from two, including the psychologist, and one more physician to see, she would be fully cleared to return to work.

Sliding an arm around her waist, he said, "My mother waits."

Grissom was not sure how his mother had managed to get in a position to work with the Gilbert Institute, but she had. Even before Sara had moved in with him, Betty Grissom had taken an interest in the school and often stayed at the institute when she visited. "Easier to manage" she explained. And once a year, she arrived in Vegas to be a part of the annual benefit event. Several hundred thousand dollars had been raised last year and this year, it would continue. His mother had been ecstatic with more sponsors and donations than ever as she had shown her son plans for the institute to become a self-supporting, accredited college.

Timing their arrival for the performance by an opera singer, they found their seats as the lights dimmed. Grissom's mother motioned for Sara to take the seat next to her and gently patted Sara's knee as she sat down. Grissom was pleased; the two women he loved looked elegant, appearing at ease with each other.

As the soprano began singing, a 'shadow' performed sign language, standing in the spotlight with the singer and Grissom settled in for the concert. He touched Sara's arm and she moved enough so he could slip his hand around her elbow.

In a few days, they would return to work. His mind revisited their conversation that had been left dangling; he thought he would move to day shift while Sara remained on grave. She had insisted she be the one to move and that's where it remained. Knowing Sara, she would win this argument yet he could barely bring himself to think of working without her by his side.

Glancing at his mother, he saw her smile and knew she was enjoying the performance even if she could not hear the words. He had not explained his relationship with Sara to his mother; his mother had not asked but she had arrived at the condo with several new books and a bouquet of flowers for Sara. Both women, he thought, had been congenial and considerate toward the other. Maybe, he decided, he should teach Sara basic sign language.

"Are you paying attention?" Sara whispered as he fidgeted in his seat.

Grinning, he said, "Yes. She's nearly finished." Then he saw the sheen of tears covering Sara's dark eyes and moisture hung on her lashes as the pure, rich notes throbbed on the air. He had not realized she would understand the tragedy of the aria.

When the last note shimmered into silence, the audience rose and applauded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sara quickly wipe her eyes. Someone presented the singer with roses as some in the crowd raised hands in the wave of ASL applause.

Signing to his mother that they would wait outside, he and Sara found a quiet corner.

"That was beautiful," Sara said. "I had no idea I'd enjoy it as much as I did."

"A story of heartbreak and tragedy—how did you know?"

Smiling, she said, "I looked up the singer—she's from Los Angeles and performs this show all over the country. Her face and voice were filled with sadness—she was conveying so much passion!"

"One day, we'll see the entire opera. You'll enjoy it."

Fifteen minutes later, Betty found them, introducing several of the institute's board members to Grissom and Sara. Sara was amazed at the rapid conversation as they used sign language; laughing, Grissom gave up several times as he attempted to translate their words.

Finally, he said, signing to his mother, "We must leave. Sara's exhausted—her first outing since…"

Quickly, Betty excused herself from the group and walked outside with them. On the steps of the building, her hands and fingers flew as she conversed with her son. Twice, Grissom moved his fingers along his arm from fingertips to elbow, asking for her to slow down. He kept his eyes on his mother as she signed, relieved that Sara could not understand what his mother was saying.

When Betty pointed at Sara, giving her a look of undisguised inquisitiveness, Grissom lost track of the conversation for a few seconds. His mother was giving her approval of the young woman saying "something about her is special". Signing that she was a good judge of character—and anyone who could bring the look of happiness to her son's face had her vote of confidence—he had been lonely for too many years.

Definitely asking too many questions, Grissom thought, as his mother signed "Are you going to get married?"

Startled by the question, he glanced at Sara who was smiling. Grissom signed, "You ask too many questions. We don't know if we're going to get married or not but you will be the first to know."

Betty nodded, smiled at Sara, and opened her purse. A few seconds later, she pulled out a key. Turning to Grissom, she signed, "Tell Sara this is a key to my place. Maybe she can get you to visit me one day."

As a puzzled Sara took the key from his mother, he said, "She wants you to have a key to her place in LA." When Sara's eyebrows shot up, he added, "So you and I can visit."

Softly, Sara giggled. "Of course, we will."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart." He leaned close, kissing her on the mouth, causing Sara to smile. Then, turning to his mother, he signed, placing a finger to his lips first before moving his palm to his closed hand, saying, "I promise."

Twelve hours later, Grissom felt lips nibbling at his jaw. As he rolled to face Sara, he said, "This is unexpected."

Sara's sexy giggle met his ears. "It's been too long—eleven very long days." She wiggled against him. "You are going to have to get physical with me—do more than button my pants."

He thought his heart might jump out of his chest; he had certainly thought about making love to her, but, because her body was covered with abrasions, bruises, and cuts, he had been afraid to initiate more than gentle hugs and kisses.

"Yes," he whispered as he rolled to face her. Take care of the arm, he thought, as he reached for a pillow. "We'll put this here" wedging it under her arm. Then taking the edge of her shirt, he tugged it up to release her right arm. His fingers whispered along exposed skin. "You're sure about this?"

She nodded and then jerked when his knuckles touched a bruise on her hip. "I'm still tender in a few places." She chuckled, "but I need you." Her hand slipped to the waistband on his boxers. "And when I woke up, you had this huge—huge boner!" She pushed the fabric down; her warm fingers wrapped around his very erect penis. When her thumb grazed its end, he shuddered.

After that, he almost forgot that she had tender bruises, healing cuts, and a bulky cast on one arm. His hands stroked her, slow and gentle, as he kissed her; heat warmed his body as she responded. She moved under him, hips arching, her hand pulled him close as fingers threaded through his hair.

Excitement and passion grew as release came crashing in waves; blood pounded, as they came together.

A while later, Sara lay quietly in his arms. They had been passionate, almost frantic, in their lovemaking; their need had surprised both of them. Pushing herself up on one elbow, Sara looked down at him.

She said, "Tell me what your mother said—before giving me the key. She seemed very—animated."

Grissom smiled. "She wants us to visit before she moves." He wasn't going to tell her everything his mother had conveyed. "She thinks you are a very special woman." He felt her soft sigh. "Do you need anything? Can you sleep?"

Another sigh as she shifted her arm with the cumbersome cast. "I can sleep. I need another pillow—this cast is driving me a little nuts."

Kissing her forehead, he said, "Are you sure you're ready to return to work?"

"I am—I'm fine, Gil." She smiled, adding, "Feeling much better."

Tucking bed covers around her, he got out of bed and pulled on pants. "I'll take Hank out to pee." He pointed a finger at her, saying, "Go to sleep. You need rest."

When he got outside, he let the dog have free run of the fenced area across the common driveway and he found one of the benches. His thoughts went back to what his mother had expressed—suggested. Maybe it was time for him to move this relationship to another level. He loved Sara; she loved him.

Looking up at the clear sky, he thought about the woman who had changed his life, who he loved with his heart, soul, and mind. Sara had brought him to life, given new meaning to his life. Yes, he thought, it was time to ask Sara to marry him.

 _A/N: Thank you! Your comments are always appreciated!_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Thank you for reading. Thanks in advance for reviews! _

**Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 2**

Sara. For weeks, she had laughed and smiled, completed physical therapy, prepared dinner; they had celebrated his unexpected proposal by making love for hours, laughing about how to actually get married in ridiculous ways before they slept. He knew she was happy. But he had not known everything.

So much had been going on—so many things had robbed his time with her—and he knew better than anyone how successful Sara Sidle could be at hiding secrets. He knew she had tried; had hoped she had succeeded in putting events in the past. Her written words had left him unable to breathe.

Realizing he still gripped her letter in his hand as he entered the locker room, he jammed it in his pocket. Finally, a breath of relief when he opened Sara's locker to find her things inside—clothes on the hooks, photos taped on the door. Slowly, he turned; nothing seemed out of place. Nothing to indicate—he stopped near the door and stared at the trash can a few seconds before reaching a hand inside. He fingered the fabric name tag. She had taken time to remove the stitches.

Quickly, he left the room, heading back to Judy.

Minutes later he was driving out of the parking garage; she could not be far. And he breathed another sigh of relief when he opened the garage door and saw her car. By the time he entered the kitchen, he knew she was there.

And found her—curled up tight on the bed. An open suitcase was beside her. Hank was on the bed with her.

"Hey," he said softly as he sat beside her, gently placing his hand on her hair. "I—I got your letter. Want to tell me what happened?"

Sara's eyes opened as a veil of tears suddenly appeared. "I—I didn't have a toothbrush," she whispered. A sob caught in her throat.

Grissom, startled for a moment, gathered her into his arms. She flinched at first, surprised by the unexpectedness of his touch, but then she surrendered. Collapsing into his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, she wept.

His hand smoothed her hair. "Don't worry—we'll find you one." He turned his head and rested his cheek on the top of Sara's head. "You're a survivor. You're going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right."

Even as he was unsure of his own words, he desperately wanted Sara to understand; he would do anything to make her world right.

Over the next twenty-four hours, a life that had been years in the making was systematically dismantled. Sara was adamant that she needed to leave Vegas. He made a phone call to the sheriff who immediately granted his request for Sara's leave without asking many questions. With Grissom's help, she packed two suitcases. He found an extended-stay hotel near her mother. And, tearfully, she apologized for her behavior yet a few hours later, she cried uncontrollably as she told him she no longer wanted to marry him.

She could not meet his eyes; it wasn't that she loved him less, she said. She didn't think she was worthy of his love. "I think I'm losing my mind," she whispered.

Grissom knew she was sick, mentally overwhelmed by her abduction, her hours in the desert. When she dropped into a fitful sleep, he had gotten on the phone with the department psychologist who contacted a psychiatrist, a specialist in post traumatic stress. And he got the name of a group practice in San Francisco; she needed help he could not give her—he had been blind to her descent into a dark hole—but he could support her, make sure she got treatment even if it meant giving her space to recover.

He stayed beside her, feeding her, wrapping her in a soft blanket. At times, her words had no meaning then she would lapse into silence punctuated by a choking sob. Finally, exhaustion and fatigue closed her eyes.

As he prepared vegetable soup, he became convinced that her state of mind may have been triggered in the desert, as she had written in her letter, but he remembered her comment from a crime scene—a murdered couple, having a quiet night at home when an intruder had picked them at random. It had not registered at the time, but Sara had been upset and he had followed a train.

Talking with Jim Brass and Catherine, he had pieced together the last hours Sara had been working—he heard of Sara's odd reaction to the domestic violence case. A woman stabbed by her husband; the officer on the case had noticed Sara's non-involvement, even mentioned it to Brass, as being uncharacteristic of Sara.

And then Hannah and Marlon West had reappeared, involved in another murder. He learned of Marlon's suicide, of Hannah's breakdown as she was taken into custody.

"It will be a long time before she's out of a mental hospital," Brass had added.

Silently, he berated himself for not noticing subtle changes—how could the woman he loved hide her pain so well. He shook his head knowing the answer, reliving the occasions of being oblivious and careless to the woman he loved.

Months ago, Sara had shared with him a dream she'd been having on and off for most of her life. She was standing in the middle of a field with nothing on the horizon in any direction. There was no sense of malice or evil, nothing for the imagination, just miles and miles of tall grass. At times, she recollected, she had known she was looking for someone but no matter how many times she'd had the dream, she would wake the moment before finding the person.

Grissom knew the ghosts of her dreams were the ones she had mentioned in her letter.

He checked on her every fifteen minutes or so but was outside with the dog when she woke and got in the shower. She was dressing as he entered the bedroom.

Smiling, he asked, "Are you hungry?"

She nodded and then said, "I have to go, Gil. I—I can't stay here." Tears filled her eyes before she turned away.

He wanted to say "Not without me" but he hugged her and said, "You've got a place to stay near your mother."

"I—I don't know what's happening to me." She withdrew from his arms, sighed heavily, and sat on the bed. The dog managed to find her hand.

Grissom watched as Sara's hands cupped around the dog's head; even Hank's brown eyes seemed concerned by Sara's touch.

"We'll be fine, honey. You'll feel better in a few weeks. It—it will be good for you to—to smell the ocean, spend some time with your mother."

Her response was another deep sigh and a choked sob."

It was early in the morning when Sara took Hank for a walk; she had slipped out while Grissom was in the shower. He found her staring at the rising sun, the dog at her feet. A greenish tint indicted new life had been sprinkled in the ground from the sprinklers that sprayed a mist into flower beds.

His thoughts, what he would do, where Sara would go, recognized that no matter what a person's situation was, it would eventually change, for good or bad. There was a risk involved—in a few hours, Sara would fly to San Francisco where a woman from a support group would meet her at the airport. An appointment with a psychiatrist was scheduled for later in the day. But she had to leave; he knew she was fighting a wildfire to maintain a semblance of normalancy.

When he placed an arm around her waist, she laid her head against his shoulder. A few seconds later, she turned her face to his and suddenly kissed him. Gently, with a warmth that almost unknotted every snag of tension inside him.

"I do love you, Gil," she whispered.

"I know you do—know this—I love you now, today, tomorrow." His fingers traced along her tear stained cheek.

Silently, they entered the home they shared, got her packed bags, and drove to the airport. He held her hand until she went through security and then, using his Clark County ID tag, he rejoined her as she waited to board her flight. They did not talk other than to say "goodbye" as they hugged.

In a week, seven days, they would see each other. That was as far as their future could go.

 _A/N: Sadly, it seems the end of CSI, the television series, has caused numerous fan sites to close. Hopefully, fanfiction readers will continue to support CSI stories for a while longer. So-thank you for your support and we'll continue writing._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you for reading, for staying with us! CSI writers did not tell us anything about Sara's absence except that she was visiting her mother. We know there was more going on-and certainly more involvement by Grissom. More to come-and remember to send us a comment!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 3**

Sara was waiting for Grissom when he arrived at the San Francisco airport. What a difference a week had made; to be exact, it had been nine days since he had watched her get on a plane and leave Vegas. The change was remarkable.

When he saw her, he stopped and stared, saying, "Look at you!"

"What's the matter?" Her smiled broadened; her arms spread outward.

Grissom grinned so that his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Nothing at all. You look great. San Francisco must agree with you."

Sara laughed softly, stepped forward and, as his bag dropped to his feet, their arms went around each other. He had not forgotten the gentle, yet physically remote, embrace on her departure. She had found it difficult to look at his eyes. This was different, almost back to normal.

Today, her eyes appeared to dance with bright joy yet he had the feeling that she was using every ounce of energy to keep up a front of function. Before many words passed between them, Sara had plucked his bag from the floor, put a slim arm around him and steered them both through the doors of the airport.

They kept looking at each other; a smile forming as arms tightened until they reached a small faded-red car, old by any standard, where Sara lifted the hatchback and placed his bag inside.

At the question on his face, she answered, "It's my mom's and runs great." They buckled up and she cranked the car, moving into traffic quickly, speeding toward the city. "My mother is thrilled you've come." A moment's hesitation, before adding, "She's doing good—real good—but she's still nuts."

Traffic slowed; they lowered the windows for air.

Grissom said, "It really is different here. One forgets how the glare of the sun changes things. Here—even in the city—the air is different."

A few minutes later, Sara exited the freeway and headed west, driving through neighborhoods that were a mix of gentrification, restoration, and tap-hammer repairs.

Smiling, she said, "The first thing Peg did after picking me up was to take me to the beach. I can't wait for you to meet her—she really is good at what she does." A tremulous smile gained hold and became a solid grin.

"We stood at the edge of the waves and she told me to match my breath to that of the ocean; in and out, in and out." She maneuvered the car into a parking space without so much as a backward glance. When she switched off the engine, she leaned forward, looking at the sky. She said, "For the first time in a long time, I—a sense of calm came over me, Gil. I—I felt like I could breathe without this darkness waiting to swallow me."

Grissom leaned over and kissed her cheek. They had talked on the phone numerous times in nine days; he had heard her words and now saw the effects. He said, "I could use some of that calm." He squeezed her hand.

With a slight nod, she released his hand and opened the car door.

A swirling salt-scented breeze swept through the car. Sand stretched in front of them and, as they held hands, they walked toward the water. He caught sight of the Golden Gate Bridge and stopped to take it in. He had forgotten how beautiful it was.

For a long minute, he tilted his face skyward and let the breeze tickle his eyelashes. Birds engaged in their own conversation behind them. In front, he heard waves lapping rhythmically against the coast. Within his hand, he felt the warm palm and slim fingers of the woman he loved.

He could taste the salt in the air, a sensation that he had forgotten. Holding hands, they walked along the beach, stopping frequently to watch waves. The sun had set hundreds of lights shimmering on its surface, rising and rippling with the breeze.

Walking back to the car, easily, Grissom's arm went around Sara; hers circled around his back. She smiled as she tucked her head against his shoulder. And when they arrived at the car, he kissed her again, deeply, and got the hoped-for response.

A few minutes later, he asked, "When are we expected by your mother?"

"Not for a while. We can eat. Then an appointment with the shrink—psychiatrist—at two for about an hour. We should have a couple of hours before we meet my mom." She giggled. "And I think I have a plan for those hours."

Grissom's eyebrow arched. He asked, "A ride on the famous cable cars?"

Sara pointed to the passenger side of the car. "Get in. We're going to eat. Seafood and vegetarian sushi."

His shrimp salad tasted better than anything he'd eaten in two weeks. He told a few stories about the lab that caused Sara to laugh. She divulged a few of her mother's eccentricities—her refusal to use a potato peeler because it did not trim as close as a knife, her backyard feeding station for neighbor's cats, the way she had decorated the postage-stamp size patio. Grissom laughed which pleased Sara and she laughed with him.

After another short drive, they were walking into an office building, non-descript, decades old, but recently renovated, climbing stairs that were open to a spacious, light-filled foyer. Small signs directed visitors to specific offices. Sara pushed open a door near the back of the building, holding it for Grissom to enter.

He was surprised. The walls were lined with bookcases and large photographs of mountains, oceans, forests, rivers, and waterfalls. It felt more like a library in a comfortable home than a professional office. A couple of rocking chairs and a sofa were placed around a square table.

There was no secretary, no receptionist, but in seconds, a woman appeared in the doorway set in the center of the bookcase lined wall. He recognized immediately this was Peg, social worker or psychologist, he wasn't sure, who had met Sara at the airport. And he knew why Sara liked the woman.

A smile started at her mouth and moved across her face so every crease seemed to move upward. Her hair was wild, untamable, and red—and her dress—Sara had called it something else—billowed around her like a multi-colored paisley cloud. And it swelled and engulfed him as the woman reached for his hand and made a rapid movement that caught him in a greeting that was somewhere between a handshake and a bear hug. Over Peg's shoulder, he saw Sara bite her lip to keep from laughing.

In all the noise of introductions, he missed the second person's arrival until Peg stepped away and, with a familiar wave of her hand, Peg said, "Dr. Grissom, Dr. Cassandra Peters."

Even though Sara had described the physician in detail, Grissom was still surprised at the appearance of the tall, distinguished woman who took his hand very formally. Sara had described the two women as "opposites attract" and for all the exaggerated appearance of one, the other was discreet, a minimalist. He understood why Sara had expressed relief and admiration for both.

They moved into an inner room, one that had the appearance of a pleasant and welcoming sanctum, providing a sense of retreat, a sanctuary. There were a few photographs, a magnificent bouquet of flowers near the wall of windows, comfortable chairs arranged for conversation. There were no diplomas, no plaques of commendation, or awards of achievement.

Peg dropped into one chair while Sara headed to one next to her which put him between Sara and Dr. Peters.

For more than an hour, the two women talked, explained, and asked questions. They were thorough, they were kind, and, best of all, they voiced hope and recovery.

Dr. Peters described a plan of care that involved individual and group counseling. "Most people come through my door because of a crisis—a loss of something or someone—a change in life. One has to adapt—and Sara has become an expert at that. The childhood trauma Sara experienced set the stage for another traumatic event—such as she experienced recently—to put her into a tailspin."

Quietly, the psychiatrist explained therapy and treatment in detail; Grissom had read pages of medical information and research papers since Sara has left Vegas. Yet, Dr. Peters revealed her expertise in her descriptions of appropriate therapies.

"Sara wants this to work and she'll work hard to do it," she said.

After ninety minutes that included a quick bathroom break and a round of tea and small, sweet cookies, Grissom and Sara were back in the faded-red car, exhausted from the intensity of what they had heard.

"It won't be quick," Sara finally said. She took Grissom's hand and kissed each knuckle. "Three months."

Grissom shook his head, saying, "Three months will pass quickly—even if it's longer—we'll get through this."

"Thank you, Gil." Her eyes closed for a few seconds. "I—I don't know if I can handle the virtual reality therapy—trying to recall the time I was a child…"

"I know you remember a lot of details from that night."

Sara's choked response caused him to blink away sudden tears. She said, "I don't know if I remember anything that happened that night—or if I made it up."

A few minutes later, her face showing anguish from her thoughts, she started the car.

Grissom said, "Why don't we get a shaved ice—I haven't eaten one in years—but I saw a place near the restaurant."

A faint change came over her face as she nodded.

Retracing their route, they found the place with a large painted cone of shaved ice out front, found a parking spot nearby, and ordered large sizes—a red—cherry—and a green—watermelon—flavored cones. When the man behind the counter handed their treats to them, both laughed at the size, easily as big as Grissom's head.

Somehow, eating finely crushed fruit-flavored ice while sitting on an old wooden beach changed the mood. Sara laughed as he told her about Hank taking over her pillow; he did not tell her how the dog mourned her absence.

Before they had eaten half of their shaved ice, Sara said, "I need to pick up my mom." She sighed, "She's nuts, Gil."

He tossed the melting remains of the ice into the trash. "Let's go pick her up."

 _A/N: Thank you! We look forward to hearing from you._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** _: A fast update to continue Grissom's visit to San Francisco. If you are reading, we'd like to hear from you!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 4**

Grissom had met Laura Sidle on two occasions; both times in Vegas when she'd visited Sara. He recognized the older woman wearing a floral dress and a yellow sweater who came out of the large warehouse building that contained the commercial laundry and dry cleaning business where she'd worked for years. There was an uncanny resemblance between mother and daughter at first glance but closer study dismissed the similarities as coincidence; two women who had brown eyes, a wide smile, a slim build.

Laura Sidle walked with a limp and carried a cane. She'd informed Grissom she carried the cane to indicate she moved slower than most people. But the differences in the two women went beyond how they walked—Sara's mother had taken first generation neuroleptics for years and as a result, suffered from tardive dyskinesia. Life had not been easy for her, Grissom thought, suddenly realizing that Laura Sidle had been younger than Sara when she had been institutionalized.

She was also an alcoholic who occasionally lapsed into days of indulging in cheap liquor. Living in a supportive group home for several years had helped, but he knew Sara worried about her mother; trying to maintain a connection with a woman who had been absent for more than a decade, re-entering Sara's life when she was an independent adult, was difficult on a good day. Even if the two did not see each other but a couple of times a year, Sara quietly kept tabs on her through several long-time friends.

Waving, smiling when she saw them, Laura seemed to be delighted to see them waiting for her. She came toward Grissom with her arm stretched in his direction.

"It's so good to see you, Dr. Grissom!" Her voice trilled like a young girl's.

Grissom shook her hand; no attempt of a hug from a woman who had experienced domestic abuse for years and spent another decade in a place where physical contact wasn't part of treatment but she did briefly touch Grissom's shoulder as he held the car door for her.

After a few minutes of light-hearted discussion about what to do, Sara drove to another small café so her mother could eat. Her workday started at sunrise, she explained to Grissom, and usually ended with a nap in her recliner before the sun set.

Grissom, knowing Laura's history, was surprised when they walked in to a place that appeared to be more of a bar than a place to eat. But the waitress knew Laura and within minutes delivered a plate of food—"the daily special"—ham, rice covered with gravy, and peas which looked pretty tasty to Grissom. A glance at Sara and he ordered a beer.

Laura Sidle ate slowly, with the table manners of an etiquette expert; an elaborate ritual of cutting small bites of food, placing her fork beside her plate as she chewed, Grissom thought. She was looking out of the large window at the street in front of the café, not making eye contact with him even though he was across the table.

Grissom watched mother and daughter for a few minutes; their eyes seemed to follow whatever was moving outside. Turning he glanced out of the window and asked, "You two are watching the same thing—what is it?"

A quiet chuckle came from Sara. Her mother grinned. She said, "I'm watching peace, Dr. Grissom." She had placed her fork beside her plate and folded her fingers together.

"I've been coming here for years." Glancing at Sara, she continued, "At one time I came in to drink—too much most of the time—but I don't do that now. I like to watch what's going on—wind blowing the trees across the street, people catching the bus, the flowers—it's calm and peaceful." She glanced again at Sara, smiling. "And now my daughter has come for a visit—you've come for a few days—it's nice to have visitors."

"It's nice to be here," Grissom said and settled back with his beer.

Sara breathed a sigh of relief; he already knew Sara had decided not to tell her mother the truth around why she was in San Francisco. Not yet—it would come, but not today.

"It was horrible what that woman did to Sara," Laura said as she patted Sara's hand. "Everyone at work saw the news." She picked up her fork before continuing, "But I knew my girl was strong—and smart—always, from the time she was just a little thing—she was smart and could do anything she set her mind to do."

Grissom looked at Sara and smiled.

Laura Sidle suddenly laughed, quickly glancing at Sara, beside her, and at Grissom who sat across the table. She laughed as she said, "You two are trying to keep it a secret, aren't you?" In an unconscious breach of etiquette, she pointed her fork at Grissom, saying, "You love Sara!" Turning to her daughter, she added, "And you—you—why didn't you tell me?" Chuckling, she stirred her rice and gravy and scooped up a forkful. "I think that's great." Silently, she laughed again and before putting the food in her mouth, she said, "It's about time she has a serious guy. Now, maybe I'll get to be a grandma!"

Sara managed to speak before he did, saying, "Mom, don't start…"

Grissom chuckled. "I'd marry your daughter tomorrow, Mrs. Sidle. But she's got an independent streak a mile wide." He shrugged, "I haven't convinced her yet to be Mrs. Grissom."

"Call me Laura," the older woman smiled as she touched Sara's arm with her elbow. "He's a good man, Sara. You don't have to get married now-a-days." Looking at Grissom, she winked, exaggerated by keeping her eye closed longer than necessary and wrinkling up one side of her face.

After that, Laura relaxed, offered Grissom a piece of ham and a roll. Laughing, he turned down her offer but the atmosphere changed to one of affection and geniality, somewhat stilted yet pleasant.

Later, Sara drove to the small house her mother shared with three other women. All of the women, at one time, had been incarcerated and confined to state-ordered treatment facilities, released after decades of isolation; their home was partly supported by state funding which included visits by a social worker.

One of the fears Sara had expressed was what would happen when state funding ended for this innovative program. As they got out of the car, Grissom saw the house as a home, enjoyed by its occupants from all appearances.

The small front yard was covered with plants, blooming flowers, cactus, trailing vines, along with a few tomato plants, Grissom noticed. Everything was a jumble in the way of small gardens yet the place looked tended. Someone liked growing things.

When invited inside, Grissom was almost overwhelmed with—stuff. Not in a hoarding way, but walls were filled with shelves holding pottery—bowls, plates, cups, small animals, vibrant mixes of colors—and where there was no pottery, there were paintings. As his mind tried to take in the room, the women were talking, introducing him to two of Laura's housemates.

One woman, Janet with dyed blonde streaks in short, graying hair, pumped his hand. "So good to meet you! Sara's friend—we think of Sara as belonging to us." Changing topics, she turned around, waving a hand at the pottery. "We take pottery classes, Dr. Grissom. So we display anything we can't sell at the craft market." The woman laughed, "We don't sell much of it from the looks of things."

A few minutes of friendly chaotic chatter surrounded them as the women welcomed Sara and Grissom into their home, inquired about health, Las Vegas, Sara's 'vacation', how long he would be in the city. They moved from a living area to sliding doors that were opened to catch a breeze.

The back yard was similar to the front, only slightly larger, with a cluttered patio, a vegetable garden, several bird feeders, and the cat feeding bowls. It took a while with three women often talking at once, sharing and then contradicting how a certain pot or piece of pottery had been placed in the yard. Finally, Sara managed their departure after Grissom suggested taking everyone to dinner the next day. Leaving the women to decide where they would like to eat, Sara and Grissom took deep breaths after reaching the car.

"Do you come here every day?"

Sara laughed. "Every day—and on my mother's days off, I'm here until I can talk her into going someplace—a park, the beach, a bookstore. Her life is very…" She paused for a few seconds, "Her life is very sheltered—very narrow—from here to work to the café, sometimes a stop at the grocery store."

Grissom's intuition kicked out his thoughts. "The yard is your mother's—she doesn't work on pottery or painting."

Sara grinned, saying, "I won't ask how you figured that out."

As she cranked the car, he yawned, saying, "I don't know about you, but I could use a nap." He did not voice his thoughts—wondering how Sara could stay in the small house for longer than a few minutes at a time.

She laughed, pulling into the street, saying, "My plans do not include a nap, dear!"

He recognized a nervous edge, a tension that had not been there earlier. His hand touched hers. "I seriously need a nap—and a shower. A shower then a nap. Then we'll get to your plans."

"The place is small."

"A bed and a shower will do."

She smiled; it was hesitant. A frown puckered her forehead for an instant. Her eyes stayed on the street ahead as she said, "I have to do this, Gil."

"I know you do. We are going to get through this, Sara." He leaned over and kissed her cheek causing a smile—not radiant but it would do for now, he thought.

The hotel suite was small; a small kitchen, a sitting area, a bedroom with a king size bed, and a standard sized bathroom. It smelled clean, looked new, and, Grissom knew, the blanket on the bed was one Sara had purchased. Little else was personal—a photo of he and Hank, two books, a newspaper turned to the crossword page. He managed to hide the overwhelming feeling of sadness he felt by saying:

"This works, dear." His arm went around her as he tossed his bag toward the sofa. He brushed a dark curl behind her ear. "You've got a physician who's among the best in the field for treating post-traumatic stress." He hugged her gently against his chest. "We know you need to put these ghosts to rest and then—then we'll decide what to do next."

Sara decided what to do in the next hour by pushing him into the bathroom as she unbuttoned his shirt. He protested, halfheartedly.

"I've missed you, Gil."

"I've missed you too." Looking at her closely, holding her face within his hands, he said, "It's funny—I feel as if you've been in my life forever—the best part of my life." Gently, he brought her into the circle of his arms, kissing her tenderly until she responded to him. And then it was blistering.

Standing in the small bathroom, they undressed with great speed, suddenly urgent to be intimate. With loving hands that touched, stroked, explored, and brought her to a fever of excitement, he covered her with a citrus scented body wash, held her close as she kissed him with an intense, building passion. Water cascaded from the small shower, rinsed their skin, wrinkled fingertips, made them whisper lovers' words.

Quickly, out of the shower, with an attempt to dry before tumbling into the bed, they could not get enough of each other. Grissom luxuriated in the nearness of her, in the knowledge that she longed for him as much as he needed her. Sara's dark eyes brimmed with longing—for him.

His body felt hot; he had wanted her so much, wanted her to want him, and now he felt as though he would explode. Her eyes followed his hands, over her shoulders, her arms, as he began to kiss her. He felt her long fingers in his hair, stroking, smoothing, massaging his neck and shoulders. A soft moan seemed to surround him as his lips touched her breast.

Whispering, "I want to kiss every part of you," he heard her murmured response, "I'd like that."

He slid down the bed, brought his mouth to her core, flicking his tongue against her feminine bud, tasting her. Her response was immediate as she grasped his shoulders and gasped his name.

Before he could stop, stretching his body over hers, he took her suddenly, moving swiftly, hearing her gasp with surprise and pleasure as her legs wrapped around him. Over the rapid beating of his own heart, he heard the soft plea, the tender demand that merged with his. Sara's warm body thrust up to him, welded to his. Everything blurred as the glory of her orgasm ripped through her, released as a strong, welcoming explosion until he shuddered, stunned again by his feeling of love for this woman.

 _A/N: Thank you! We appreciate hearing from everyone who is reading this story. So, if you have not done so, take 30 seconds to send us a word, a comment, even a couple of sentences!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thank you for reading-thank you for your reviews!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 5**

Gil Grissom settled into his window seat, clipped the seat belt ends together without looking, and closed his eyes. His third flight in as many weeks. Support—support and commitment, keep promises, make future plans. Be patient—this takes time. Do normal things. His fingers rubbed his eyes; he could handle this—they could handle it.

His thoughts drifted back to the previous trip. Sara had not been herself; her therapist, the woman named Peg, had agreed it had been a difficult week. After doing a search on the therapist, Grissom had learned much about the woman entrusted with Sara's well-being. Professionally, Peg was Dr. Margaret Newman who had, fifteen years ago, graduated at the top of her class from the University of Pennsylvania. For ten years, she had worked with victims of the most horrific events in the country. Five years ago, she had joined Dr. Peters in private practice.

Dr. Peters, the psychiatrist, was also well qualified; recommended because her practice was with law enforcement employees who had experienced trauma—often personal events that led to people to her office. She had no qualms about saying she believed in resolutions, in healing, in getting on with living. He and the psychiatrist had a long discussion about Sara's long-term avoidance—the key to Sara's recovery lay in her past. Last week, her emotional state seemed to be stuck in a state of despair and hopelessness.

Peg had been the one to pull Sara through the dark hole; he felt helpless as he sat in Vegas while Sara was despondent but Peg insisted that he was not needed—to wait a few days. And Sara had seemed to respond; Peg had been the one to explain Sara's situation to Laura Sidle. And had gotten Laura to agree to sessions with Sara. Not traditional therapy, from what he understood—truth be told, he didn't know what Sara had meant by that, but she sounded better. And he was grateful for the guarded optimism that he had heard in her voice in the past few days.

For this trip, he was renting a car at the airport, picking Sara up at her mother's home, and the three of them were driving north. Sara wanted it to be a surprise, but he suspected they were going to the small town where Sara had lived with her parents as a young child. She had told him the trip had been suggested by Dr. Peters as a way to have a positive experience with her mother, where they could both remember a time and place before their lives were torn apart.

Breathing deeply, his attempt at sleep seemed to be chased away by worry. He had read every research paper written about post traumatic stress—and while women were the most likely to have the condition, there was a paucity of studies published. So he had read individual case studies and textbook descriptions. He'd even read several articles in women's magazines where wives described living with spouses diagnosed with PTSD.

He had come to realize that by the time Sara, an emotional wreck, had walked out of the lab, she had been on the precept of a long, dark fall. She was using all her strength to pretend—days she had walked in a fog, nights she could not sleep, reliving images he had no knowledge of—and she had not trusted him, unable, unwilling to tell him the truth. He had not been able to see her frail and fraught condition until she was on the verge of implosion. His fault, he had whispered to Dr. Peters.

Rubbing his eyes again, he pushed those thoughts away. He had not asked, but Dr. Peters had spelled it out in details—commitment, support, patience, encouragement. He could do that; his desire for life with Sara went far beyond a few months of therapy.

Finally, he slept, his head resting against the airplane's window. Less than an hour later, as the plane descended for landing, he woke. He had to rub the kink out of his neck but his thoughts were positive as the mosaic of colors surrounded by water came into view. The gleaming towers of the financial district stood in contrast to the lush green neighborhoods, the wide highways spread for miles inland, to the south and north of the city.

He had to wait at baggage claim; Sara had requested some things from home and, while it brought tears to his eyes, he had carefully packed her precious possessions, carrying them on board with him, and checking his luggage as baggage.

In less than an hour, he was parking a bright blue Ford Edge in front of Laura Sidle's home. And he immediately knew what Sara had been doing as "therapy"—she was on her knees in a flowerbed, weeds piled high beside her. The plants and flowers had taken on a new look—well tended, gracefully trimmed—not an obvious change, but noticeable.

Sara turned as she heard the car door close and rose in one fluid movement.

Dear God, he thought, she was beautiful—more so than he remembered—as her smile spread across her face, her arm lifted and wiped across her forehead. Her white shirt was smeared with streaks of dirt. Her long legs stuck out of ragged blue shorts at least two sizes too large. Her knees were brown with soil. And her hair had been trimmed.

"You are here!"

With her greeting, her smile, his world fell into place.

But she would not hug him; holding her arms back like wings of a duck, she leaned forward and kissed him.

"I'm dirty—you are clean!" She cried, delight obvious in her voice. "I'll be ready in five minutes—Mom isn't due home for another thirty—come in! I'm excited—Mom is excited!" She brushed dirt from her knees and then brushed her hair away from her face and left a smear of brown from her chin to her ear. Quickly, she cleaned up her tools and tossed the weeds in a paper bag.

Following her into the house, he noticed another difference. Again, not obvious, but where there had been a jumble of objects on shelves, there was order. A display of pottery interspersed with vases of flowers, a few paperback books and two photographs sat on the shelves. Instead of the two sofas he remembered, there was one sofa and three chairs.

Someone—he knew who—had made delicate changes to the living area. Looking at the back yard, he could see the same subtle changes on the patio. Not as much clutter, a very restrained redecoration had—was taking place.

He sat down in one of the chairs to wait after Sara insisted he could not go further than the living room.

"Trust me on this, Gil. Just wait—do you need anything? Water? The bathroom? There's a bathroom off the kitchen."

He said he'd wait, needing nothing. And in less than ten minutes, Sara returned, smelling of soap, wearing a blue pullover and jeans. He met her halfway across the room.

"You look great," he whispered, giving her a hug before kissing her. And she returned his kiss with surprising passion. His Sara, he thought, she was better.

And to prove how much he'd missed her—and she felt the same—they remained in the middle of the living room hugging each other, warming to the other's touch, and intermingling kisses with lover's words until the sound of an old car caused them to pull apart.

With a sheepish grin, Grissom said, "Has it been thirty minutes?"

"No—she's home early, I think." Sara laughed, straightened her shirt and looked down. She wiped her hand across the front of his pants. "Sorry about this." A giggle.

The sound—a giggle, Sara's quiet, sexy laugh—caught his breath. His world settled into its normal orbit.

Just then the front door, a squeaky, aluminum screen one, banged and clattered as it opened and clanged shut as Laura Sidle limped in.

"Are we ready to go?" She laughed as she headed toward Grissom. "Are you happy to see me!" She touched his outstretched hand in an awkward handshake. "I packed this morning and left work at the first whistle." She patted Sara's shoulder. "I told Sara I have not been back since—since we moved—and that's been thirty years!"

As her mother hurried along the hallway, Sara looked at Grissom and laughed. "She's ready—so am I." She pointed to a small bag by the front door before giving him a quizzical glance, saying, "Might take a while to get there," she pointed. "Bathroom's there."

A/N: _Read, review, and another one soon! Thank you!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Another chapter-long one. Thanks for reading, for staying with us, and thanks to C & N for advice and encouragement!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 6**

They decided to take the scenic drive which meant slow driving and an excited Laura Sidle as she remembered visiting beaches, parks, and shops from decades earlier. It seemed there were a thousand beautiful views and several times, Grissom had to push ahead when the women wanted to linger. His case for reaching their destination was a promise to Laura.

"We'll eat oysters when we get there," he promised as an enticement to pass several points of interest.

The last stretch of the trip passed farmlands and bald-domed hills, with several miles through dense forests that were part of a state park. Grissom was surprised at the isolation of the area, only a short drive from the suburban sprawl around the city. Livestock grazed along the road and hawks flew overhead; a few abandoned buildings marked long-ago houses.

It took a few minutes to find the right restaurant, hard to miss with neon signs of oysters hanging in front windows, and busy with customers. Once food arrived, Grissom and Laura tucked in to a platter of oysters, grilled, smoked, and raw. Sara ate a salad and a large baked potato and made faces as she watched her two companions slurp down "the taste of the ocean" as Grissom described the oysters.

A few miles away, they found a place that time seemed to have forgotten. A community with no supermarkets, no fast-food joints, no stoplights, and two churches. The Victorian styled hotel Sara had booked online sat on the corner in the middle of the small village; at one time an anchor of what had been a busy farm town. Now, it was one of a dozen businesses left in operation—a small bakery and café, a general store, a realtor, a hair salon, a post office and the hotel appeared to anchor the village intersection of directional points.

Definitely off the beaten path, and as the only guests in the hotel, they were shown to their rooms by a young man who helped Laura with her bag, showed her how to work the television, and gave them a breakfast menu. He gave them a pass code for the front door, adding everything closed up before the sun disappeared.

Grissom and Sara helped Laura settle in; the woman found everything in the room, from the fragrant soaps to the plush pillows on the bed, a treasure, saying she felt like a princess in the beautiful room. Soon, they headed across the hall, bidding the older woman a good night.

Grissom opened the door to their room and realized how exhausted he was when he saw the brass bed piled high with white pillows. The room was simply furnished, soothing and inviting; he turned to Sara.

She leaned against the door, eyes closed. As silence filled the room, Grissom stepped closer, hesitant, waiting for her to move.

"She hasn't spent a night away from her house in—in at least ten years." Sara's eyes opened to meet Grissom's.

"Do you think she'll be okay?"

Her arms lifted and she placed them around his neck; her hands threaded through his hair.

"I love you, Gilbert Grissom."

His arms went around her, hugging her tightly. "I know you do, honey." He said before kissing her. "I love you." Gently, he led her to the bed. "Get in. I know you are exhausted."

Resisting, she laughed. "Brush my teeth first—and you brush the taste of oysters out of your mouth!"

A few minutes later, they were both on the bed, shoes off but fully dressed; the bed was soft, the white duvet fluffed around them. Sara rolled to face him; her fingers gently touched his face.

She said, "I don't remember any of this—hearing all the stories from my mom today—you'd think I'd remember some of them."

Grissom rearranged so he was hugging her before saying, "You were a little girl—five or six when you moved away. And you've never had anyone help you remember—telling stories about what you did or your birthday when you were three. Do you remember your grandparents at all?"

Sara took a deep breath, shaking her head. "I don't—I don't think I do—I remember an old man in a white shirt giving me a stick of peppermint. But have no idea if that was my grandfather or just—just an old man."

Grissom kissed the top of her head. "Tomorrow, we'll enjoy the day, look around, go to the beach. Memories have a funny way of popping up in unexpected places." He did not say it, but he was worried that returning memories might be distressing.

"You would think I'd remember living here, but nothing—it's like a void."

"What is your first memory?" He asked.

"Going to school," she said with a smile. "I could read and the classroom had this set of books—the teacher let me stay in during recess so I could read." She hesitated and continued. "Actually, I remember my dad reading to me." Her hand went above her head. "There was a lamp here—like a spotlight—on us."

"Your mother said you did not go to school here."

Sara made a soft laugh. She said, "Sometimes my mother doesn't remember fact from fiction, I've learned, but—but we are moving on."

Grissom lifted her hand and kissed it. "Stay right here—quick shower and we'll continue this. Tomorrow, we're going to have a great day."

He did not take a long shower; he thought it had taken five minutes, yet when he returned to the bedroom, Sara was asleep, still in her jeans, on top of the covers, in the middle of the bed. Chuckling softly, he walked around the bed, got his boxers and a white tee-shirt out of his bag, and put them on.

Knowing he would probably wake Sara, he thought about sleeping on the sofa instead of the bed, but then decided he wanted to sleep in a bed meant for soft and soothing comfort, next to Sara. Carefully, he touched her hair; instantly, her eyes opened.

"I didn't want to startle you," he whispered.

"Did I go to sleep?" She looked around, puzzled for a few seconds. "Do you think I should check on my mother?"

Grissom shook his head, "No. If she needs something, she knows where we are." Leaving the bed, he got her bag and brought it to her. With a smile, he said, "I didn't want to sleep next to jeans." He pulled out a pale pink nightshirt. "I like this one—soft, cute."

With eyes half closed, Sara laughed. She wiggled out of her jeans and he pulled her shirt over her head. In a second her bra was off and tossed toward a chair; the nightshirt was over her head and smoothed over her body.

Grissom pulled covers back and tucked her in. Crawling in beside her, he wrapped arms around her and kissed her gently.

"Sleep, sweet Sara."

"I can wake up," she mumbled; her head rested against the curve of his shoulder and neck. "You smell good."

He laughed. "Did I smell bad?" Rubbing her back, he said, "We'll sleep first, dear."

And they did—until early morning.

Sara called it a "pearly dawn"—a thin misty fog turned the hills into soft shadows and everything—and everyone—seemed to sleep. Unlike Las Vegas, this part of the world had a slow dawn, the light arriving before the sun hit the horizon. She had opened the double doors to a small Juliet balcony and was silhouetted by the light when Grissom woke.

"You are up," he said as he crawled out of bed and joined her at the window. He let his finger tip graze her thigh just below the hem of her nightshirt. "It really is beautiful here—so quiet, so isolated." His chin rested on her shoulder as he put his arms around her.

"I looked it up. Between state and national parks and privately held farm lands, the village was cut off from—from traffic. First—no railroad; then no main highway, and later, no interstate." Softly, she chuckled, "No beach, and lots of cows and goats meant few visitors." She rested her head against his. "I've missed you," she whispered.

Grissom gently drew her against him, nuzzling her neck, brushing her cheek with his lips as she turned her head away.

"I'm so scared, Gil."

He eased back. "You don't need to be. You are strong, Sara."

Her mouth formed a word, but before she could say anything, his lips came to hers. Gentle, kind, and she softened against him. There was no doubt of the love between the two. He was generous; she was sweet. They watched as the sun brightened the horizon, turning from hazy purple to washed blue and soft pink in a matter of minutes. As the pale palette of sunrise disappeared, Grissom and Sara walked back to bed, sinking into the cool bed as if it were a pool of water.

Palms slid over bodies; persuasive mouths roamed. She reached, rose to him and in the quiet beauty of the morning, she knew he would be there, that he would hold on to her. No one else, he thought, had ever unlocked him this way.

When his lips pressed against her heart, he heard a quick intake of air and then a quiet sob. He felt her rise under him, an arch of welcome. When he looked down at her, he knew she was fully aware of what they gave each other. Holding her tight as his body shook, holding ruthless control, he slipped inside her.

"Take me—I love you."

Her breath caught on his words as her eyes shimmered with tears. "Gil," her fingers curled within his hand. "Gil, I love you."

At that moment, the sun crested, flooding the room with the first sunlight of the day. Their lips met in a gentle kiss that deepened as their movements became rhythmic, flowed, and built around passion until floodgates opened, wakening everything at once. Their need had been overwhelming; afterward they stared at each other in surprise. The tranquility was a comfort, as luxurious as the bed they were in.

Grissom noticed the tense, worried expression had gone from Sara's face. She was relaxed, free of concern, beautiful, and glowing. He knew their compatibility gave them a closeness that few people shared. They would conquer her fear, her ghosts.

"You stay here and I'll bring breakfast up to you," he said.

When she began to protest, he added, "I'll check on Laura—we'll eat together and I'll bring breakfast to you." Gently, he patted her bare butt, saying, "Take your time. I can handle your mother until you—you get that 'just been loved' look under control."

Sara threw back the covers, saying, "I'll only take a minute—we can go together. I know she's been up." Swinging her legs to the floor, she stretched.

Watching her, Grissom could not help but feel lusty warmth in his groin. "You better get in the shower unless you want me to attack you again," he murmured.

"Get in the shower—I'll follow you," Sara said.

In a few minutes, they both showered and dressed; Sara tapped on the door across the hall before saying "I'm sure I heard her leave earlier."

As they headed downstairs, Grissom heard low voices, one of them Laura's, and smelled the aroma of coffee.

In a whisper, he said, "Your mother has found someone to talk to."

Sara shook her head, rolling her eyes skyward. "She also talks to herself, Gil. Maybe we'll be lucky."

They found Laura talking with an older woman, wearing an apron, who jumped up when the two approached the table.

"Good morning! I hope you slept well" A nod toward Laura, "we've been having a wonderful conversation this morning." She stuck out a hand, saying, "You must be Sara and Gil. I'm Gabby Dennis—your host, chief cook and housekeeper."

After a few minutes of greetings, settling on breakfast orders, Gabby said, "Your mother said you lived in the area years ago. I've only been here seven years—my husband and I bought the building and turned it into an inn. But I've told your mother recent history—not much to that—and old Mr. Thompson in the general story has been here for years so he can catch you up on old times."

The woman disappeared behind the staircase and Grissom and Sara sat down with her mother. A large empty plate was in front of Laura with a side dish of fresh fruit and containers of syrup, milk, orange juice and a tub of butter filling the space around her.

"I've had a delicious breakfast," Laura announced. "French toast, fruit—berries—it really is good. I hope you ordered it."

Sara nodded yes. Grissom had ordered a plate of eggs and bacon which would get him a frown from Sara, but he'd kiss her and she'd forgive him.

Laura Sidle was talkative. "I told Gabby we tried to run a small bed and breakfast here decades ago! From what she says, they don't have a lot of customers—more than we did, I'm sure!"

"Where was the bed and breakfast?" Sara asked.

Her mother waved her hand in the direction of the street, saying, "Near the church—torn down years ago, according to Gabby. Not much here to remember from the looks of the place." She placed a piece of fruit in her mouth, chewed slowly, and swallowed. "I think Mr. Thompson ran the store when we lived here."

New plates arrived filled with French toast sprinkled with sugar and fresh fruit, an omelet that filled half the plate and several pieces of thick-cut bacon, another bowl of berries, a pitcher of syrup, and a basket of croissants so freshly baked that the smell enveloped everything else.

A jar of strawberry preserves was added to the table as Gabby said, "I made these from local berries. Delicious if I do say so!"

Laura reached for a croissant. She asked, "Do you know if Mr. Thompson has been here for a while?"

"Oh, yes—forever, I'd say. His family has one of the farms—if anyone remembers your folks, he will."

The general store surprised Sara and Grissom. The ancient building was a real general store—not a beach towel or tourist post card in the place—with stacks of livestock feed in the back, shovels, rakes, towels, cookware, work clothes and boots took up the middle space, and the walls were lined with food—boxes, cans, bottles, and bags.

There was no one else in the store when they entered, but Mr. Thompson, slightly stooped by age, greeted them as if they were important customers. Quickly, he was carrying on a one-sided conversation with Sara and her mother.

Miles Thompson had lived in the area for eighty years, minus the two years he'd left for the Army. He had been married twice, both wives were buried in the Presbyterian cemetery, he said, and three children, four grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. Only one of the group was interested in the store—a grandson who showed up on weekends.

Finally, Sara was able to break in, asking, "Do you remember a Sidle family who lived here? They ran a bed and breakfast—thirty years ago?"

The old man rubbed a scratchy chin; his eyes went up to a line of hats and caps on a high shelf. "John Sidle ran the barbershop for years around here—it was that hair place over there now." His eyes returned to Sara's face. "He had two boys—one died in Vietnam. You have the look of a Sidle—tall, leggy—one of those boys climbed on top of my porch out there—when I had one and stacked fifty sacks of feed on it—using nothing but his hands. Wild boys—both of them. Mother died when they were young." He glanced at Laura and then back to Sara. "Which one was your daddy?"

"Thomas."

Nodding his head, the old man continued, "Yeah, Tommy Sidle—all the girls thought he was cute. Don't know if he ever worked an hour in his life!" He turned to Sara's mother. "So you would have been Tommy's wife? You weren't from around here."

"No—no, I grew up around Modesto."

Miles Thompson turned to find Grissom who was looking at hats. "Tommy was—wasn't he killed? Probably deserved it—never was a fight Tommy Sidle was going to lose."

Suddenly, Laura Sidle spoke, "I killed him—one night he tried to kill me."

Sighing, the old man leaned against a counter. "Now that's coming back to me—over in Modesto, wasn't it?" He looked at Sara, saying, "And you're his daughter—turned into a pretty woman, if you don't mind a compliment from an old man. I don't mean to speak ill of the dead—forgive me for that. He's buried up at the Catholic cemetery—your dad, your grandparents, your uncle. Probably more than that up there."

Sara was speechless; she'd never heard anything about her father or her grandparents from anyone. Grissom moved near her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

Extending his hand to Laura, Mr. Thompson shook her hand. "Living with Tommy Sidle must have been difficult—you never came back here, did you?"

"No, no. This is the first time since we moved. Sara was only five or six when we left."

He nodded as he moved behind the counter. "I'm sure you folks have a lot planned, re-living old memories and such. Not many families have stayed in the area—suppose you will be driving down to Marshall to see old Mr. Davis—I think he's still in the same office."

Sara glanced at her mother who looked at her and shrugged. The older woman said, "Who's Mr. Davis?"

Miles Thompson, an old man in a small community, managed to surprise the three people standing in his store, when he said, "Mr. Davis was the Sidle lawyer back when the old man died." He pointed out of the front window in the direction of the hair salon before saying, "I'm sure he's got that property tied up in a trust—and the first nickel he ever made. Davis will be able to tell you—he's old but he's sharp as ever."

The three stood in stunned silence for a full minute. Mr. Thompson said, "I'll write down directions. Not hard to find." He hunted for a pad and took several minutes to write directions. He seemed to realize he had provided information that had been unknown a few minutes earlier.

"If you folks come back here, I'll call a friend of mine—Ruth Stevens—she keeps up with the history around here, who's buried in the two cemeteries, who owns what buildings—calls herself the local historian. She'd love to talk with you."

Sara took the paper he handed her but the surprise she'd heard—not one but three people knew her father's family-kept words from forming.

Grissom, watching as a bystander, realized Laura and Sara were surprised at this turn. He had also noticed the old man had almost said something twice, stopping himself before elaborating—or was it gossip he did not want to tell? But Grissom was certain the man knew more about the Sidle family. Something that had caused his hesitation.

 _A/N: What does this old guy know? Read, review, encourage us-more coming!_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:** A new chapter. Nothing in the series indicates this happened-except-maybe it did. _

**Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 7**

As they left the store, a change occurred; Laura Sidle became quiet, withdrawn, anxious. Sara had the directions; her voice was edged with excitement as she read the words.

In the car, her thoughts tumbled out. "I'm not sure what to think—why would this guy send us to see this lawyer?"

From the rear seat, Laura mumbled, "Lawyers are never good news. They always want something—sign this form, give your consent, wanting to know your business."

Finding Laura's face in the rear-view mirror, Grissom saw white lines around Laura's mouth. Her clinched fist rested against her cheek; her knuckles were white. In that moment, he realized Sara's mother knew something.

He asked, "Have you ever met this lawyer?"

Sara shot a quick glance in his direction before turning to her mother. "Do you know Mr. Davis, Mom?"

The older woman shook her head—rapidly, her hair making a cloud around her face. "I don't know him—I don't know him. He—he—he sent some letters."

"What were they about? Mom?" Sara reached over and touched her mother's knee. "Mom? What were the letters about?"

Several minutes passed. Grissom drove away from the small village. The old man in the store had said it would take fifteen minutes to get to the lawyer's office.

"Mom!" Sara's voice was firm but soft spoken. "Mom, what did he want—what was in the letters?"

Laura looked at her daughter, eyes brimming with tears. "He wanted to know where you were. I wasn't going to tell him—so I never opened another letter."

Puzzled, Sara asked, "When did he send the letters?"

Shrugging, Laura said, "I don't remember—four or five years ago. He'd send a couple a year. I throw them away."

Sara turned back; Grissom saw an eye-roll as she made as exasperated sigh.

Her mother, in a voice that was pleading and confused, said, "They didn't want you when you needed them. I know your old granddad was mean, callous—he didn't care for anyone—but—but he could've helped you when—when I was—was put away! You didn't have anyone—that-that night."

The woman was quickly moving toward a full blown implosion of emotions.

"Is there a place to pull over?" Sara asked quietly.

Grissom found a place by slowing down and stopping on the road. There was no other traffic in sight. He flipped on the hazard lights when Sara opened the door. A few seconds later she was beside her mother, indicating that he could drive.

Laura was sobbing, talking incoherently, by the time Sara placed an arm around her mother's shoulder. Sara wiped tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

"Mom—Mom—whatever he had to say—whatever he wanted—we'll find out today. It won't take long and we'll get back to enjoying our trip."

Her mother sniffed, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt. After several deep breaths, her crying had turned to soft sobs and the compassion Sara had always extended to others was evident in the way she was murmuring quiet words to her mother.

Twenty minutes after leaving the general store, Grissom pulled into a parking space in front of a row of brick buildings. Painted across one of the large glass windows in plain white letters was the name of "Davis", the first name in several, announcing a law firm's location. From the looks of the buildings, the lawyers took up at least four store fronts.

"We are here," Grissom said softly.

At first Laura balked at getting out of the vehicle, but Sara's gentle persuasion finally got her out.

"We'll do this together," Sara promised and then laughed, "We don't even know if he will see us."

She reached for Grissom's hand, touched her mother's back, and firmly said, "Let's go see why this Mr. Davis sent you a letter."

Her mother made a gruff sounding laugh. "You can bet it's nothing good."

The reception area looked and smelled "money"—leather chairs, expensive magazines on sleek tables that had the honey glow of polished old wood, a long-case pendulum clock that had at least twelve different species of wood was mirrored by a floor to ceiling painting of the town as it had looked fifty years ago. It took two seconds for Grissom to instinctively know this firm had been here for decades.

After less than ten minutes in the lobby, Mr. Davis walked it. When Sara saw the older man enter, she glanced at Grissom who met her eyes. For the first person on the firm's name to meet them with a few minutes notice signified a level of importance that neither missed.

The man must be eighty, or nearly so. He was dressed in a tailored suit and silk tie, Prosperous but subtle. And very much at home in this rarified and artificial setting. His white hair was combed back, immaculate, newly cut; and, while he quickly glanced at Grissom, then Laura, it was Sara who held his eyes. When he stepped forward, his hand was extended to her.

"Miss Sidle—I've looked forward to this day for a while."

Grissom's first thought was 'he has not done much to find Sara' but he smiled and shook hands in turn as introductions were made.

They followed the elderly man into an adjoining room—smaller than the reception area, but as pleasing to the eye—polished wood floor reflected emerald, ruby, and sapphire colors from a stained glass window, several large flower arrangements stood on gleaming tables, two sofas faced each other in the center of the room, bookcases were along one wall, a beautiful seascape painting hanging on another. Behind them, a woman entered the room carrying a thick file and appeared to hover at Mr. Davis' elbow until they were seated. Sara, Grissom, and Laura sat on one sofa; Mr. Davis was across from Sara.

Another woman pushed a cart into the room—the aroma of coffee came with it—but the ornate silver service on top of the cart caught Grissom's eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen one of those in use.

Sara's eyes widened as she looked at Grissom; both thinking this was one of those momentous-everything-is-too-perfect occasions that they would laugh about in a few days.

In short order, everyone had a beverage—served in a delicate china cup—and a plate of cookies on the table between the sofas.

As Mr. Davis settled onto the sofa, Grissom had the impression the older man was sitting on an elevated cushion so he could look down on everyone. But, giving the man credit, his attention was on Sara.

With a few words, the attorney explained that Miles Thompson, a lifelong friend, had called him after they had left his store so he had immediately retrieved the file he had kept for the Sidle family. As the elderly lawyer talked, Grissom knew the man was comfortable in his surroundings; his natural habitat was among the legal papers and books in this office.

Intelligence seemed to reach across the table as the attorney talked; even Sara's mother listened closely as he provided a detailed, unknown history:

Nearly ten years had passed since Sara's grandfather Sidle had died, in his bed at the age of ninety-two. He had one sister who had lived another six years before her death in a neighboring town. The sister's death had prompted the letter to Laura Sidle and subsequent letters every six months.

"I hired an investigator who made several attempts to visit with your mother," he explained and gave a nod in Laura's direction. "It can be difficult to—to trust lawyers after your experience—it can also be difficult to find children who have been in the foster system." He made an almost imperceptible nod at Sara. "Until your grandfather's sister died, I had no cause to contact you. I located your mother quickly, but not you."

With that he removed a legal document from the file and passed it to Sara. He said, "This is your grandfather's will and a trust he set up. He was—and I am generous when I say—he was an unsympathetic man in life. Prior to his death, he managed to make his will and the trust—as complicated as any I've ever handled."

Sara's eyes were on the document, quickly reading it. Her forehead puckered in a frown for a minute; then her mouth twitched. A second later, she was chewing on her bottom lip.

Mr. Davis took a quiet sip of his coffee but paid close attention to Sara.

Laura, her eyes dropped, took an unusual interest in her coffee, Grissom noticed.

Sara's hand went to her mouth as she made a soft gasp and then turned to the third page of the document. From where he sat, Grissom could see a short paragraph and signatures. Quickly, she glanced at him; her eyes glistened. He recognized it as one of satisfied amusement. She handed the will toward him so he could read it.

Without saying a word, Mr. Davis passed another single sheet of paper to Sara. Quickly, she scanned the page, placing her finger on numbers at the bottom, and then she grinned, a slow, spreading smile formed across her face.

The rattle of the cup as Laura placed it in the saucer broke the silence.

Mr. Davis said, "Do you have any questions? Anything I can explain? The trust will not make you wealthy, but—but it provides for—" Smiling, he passed another piece of paper to Sara. "An enhancement to a promising future. This is the trust as of today. I believe you are thirty-four?"

Sara was shaking her head, disbelief showing on her face. "Thirty-five," she said. "This—this is unbelievable."

"Your grandfather set up the trust to provide a thousand dollars a month for his sister. Upon her death, it—it went to you."

Sara's lips tilted up, "And when I'm forty, I—I take control of the trust?"

"Yes." The attorney indicated the legal forms in Grissom's hand. "Mr. Sidle was adamant that you should reach a certain age of—of maturity and that your—your spouse, should you marry, not be able to access the trust." He cleared his throat before continuing. "As of today, I can arrange for the funds for the past four years to be transferred to your account—including interest. Or—or whatever you decide."

At that moment, Grissom wished he'd had a camera—a hidden camera—as the news of new-found wealth spread across Sara's face. Gone was the discouraging bleakness, the hopeless doubt, the wan paleness that had edged around her face for weeks.

Mr. Davis said, "I have some paperwork which we can do today—or another day at your convenience."

When they finally left the attorney's office, Sara was almost giddy. She leaned against the red-brick wall of a store front and closed her eyes. She said, "Who would have thought?"

Her mother was the opposite; tears had filled her eyes more than once before they had gotten out of the office. "I never thought about—never imagined—they wanted to find you to give you money," she said, a quiet sob finally breaking through her long silence. "I—I thought they wanted you—you to be one of them. To forget…"

This was a turn of events that none of them had ever thought would happen, Grissom thought. He said, "Why don't we get some food? Are you hungry?"

"I ate all the cookies," Laura whispered.

Sara laughed; her eyes remained closed yet she reached out to her mother, finding the older woman's shoulder. "When I was a kid, I'd try to imagine having a different father." Her eyes opened, soft, caring. "But never another mother. I'd wish for a secret message—telling me," she laughed again. "I have no idea what kind of message but it never involved money."

She wagged her fingers at Grissom, indicating that he come to her side. He stepped over and her arm went around his waist. She did the same to her mother. Then she kissed Grissom's cheek, turned to her mother and kissed her forehead.

Sighing, she said, "This has to be the weirdest day of my life—and I'd had some weird ones as you know." Throwing her head back, she looked at the sky, a startling blue the same color of flowers she'd seen in a field. "The air smells different here, doesn't it?"

Grissom agreed with a murmured response.

The three stood with arms around each other for a long minute before Sara said, "I'm not a millionaire, but I think I can buy the best lunch in this town." She laughed, another playful, lighthearted sound that Grissom had not heard in weeks. "And after lunch, let's go to the beach, rent chairs, and sit there for a few hours. Just soaking up sun."

A/N: _It's fun to think Sara might have a little something extra coming to her. Enough for a trip on a research ship, enough for Costa Rica. Enough for that nice house in "The Two Mrs. G's"! Now-can we hear from you? Give us a word of encouragement and another chapter appears!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Most of us remember this episode-and we've attempted to put it into our romance with as little disruption as possible! Let us know what you think!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 8**

Outside, the rain poured from a dark sky, hitting windows in watery sheets. The rumble of thunder penetrated the walls. A flash of lightening lit up the room even with the blinds tightly closed.

Gil Grissom lay in bed, his left hand on the dog stretched across most of the space. He wore clothes he'd worn the day before; exhaustion had driven him to this bed, to sleep that lasted minutes; dreams like thunder rolling across the desert. Only to wake in an empty bed—a bed shared by their dog. Their dog—Sara's dog before Hank became theirs—missed Sara as much as he did.

Wiping his eyes, pressing with his fingertips, he wished the nagging headache would go away. He'd had it for days; nothing seemed to help and he knew why.

Sara. They always slept close—so close they touched. Contact. He craved—desired—her touch. He'd thought they could—would—survive anything. And then something had changed. A change brought on by...

There was so much to do. He worked long hours, unable, unwilling to fly to visit Sara in San Francisco where she was finding another life. A life of laughter, sunshine; her gentle passion for helping had found a purpose—her mother and the three women living together had benefited from Sara's surprising windfall from her grandfather. They had new furniture, had taken a real vacation to Disneyland, and had brought laughter to Sara. Meeting their needs, bringing light and enjoyment to four lives had brought healing.

He should have been happy but instead he felt an old chill creeping into his life. Something was slipping out of his life. And he had let her go. Not on purpose, not as part of any plan—he was busy; so much happening at work. She was making a new life—away from him.

Warrick's death had brought Sara back to Vegas. He had been so relieved, so thankful and comforted by her presence that he had failed miserably in recognizing how difficult it had been for her to be in Vegas. He'd let everything, everyone come before Sara—she returned to the lab to work on the death of Pam Adler. And it had pushed her back into a black hole, away from him while he worked.

He groaned; it wasn't Pam Adler's death but his declaration of "she wasn't coming back to him". Suddenly, the room had gone cold as she responded. And before he could wrap things up, find a killer, complete his work at the lab, Sara had disappeared. Returned to San Francisco, he knew. But she did not stay there—she was gone. For the first time in nine years, he did not know where she was.

He got out of bed and managed to stumble to his desk where the blinking light on his computer indicated new emails; his phone flashed with waiting messages. His first thought was to ignore the lights—turn off the computer, dress and go into work. Of course, he didn't; waking the lap top with one finger, he pressed the phone with the other.

The phone messages were from work, of course. He was needed at a scene, immediately; his chin dropped to his chest, already exhausted. And then he glanced at his emails—instantly, one caught his eyes and seconds later a video opened up.

Sara's voice; Sara's face. Sara's tentative smile. Her soft, emotion-filled voice using his words—he stopped breathing.

He stared at the screen, his eyes taking her in so intently that when the video reached its end, he realized he had no comprehension of her words. He hit 'replay' and listened. Again, he watched, listened. Raking a hand across his stubbly face, he was paralyzed—there was not an inch on her beautiful body that he hadn't touched, stroked, loved. And now she was—gone—using his words; his breathe seemed to be caught in a damp quagmire, so complicated by a few words.

Sara was gone. He watched the video again, memorizing her face, her words. She was on a boat—a ship—with others—with someone who reminded her of him. Saying goodbye to him.

Gil Grissom slumped in his chair; his legs weak, his hands shook as Sara's words echoed around him. He had done this, he thought. Sent her away, thinking all he had to do was love her—she knew he loved her!

He did not know how long he sat in front of the computer until the sound of his phone startled him back to reality—back to the insistent rain, back to unrelenting work.

In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and then stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face in the mirror showed lines around the eyes and mouth, between the brows. He did not recognize the man who looked back at him.

Grissom arrived at the scene, late; Catherine was already there, working in the rain. His work no longer gave him satisfaction. His life seemed drained—there was no pleasure in anything—as if he were dragging an anvil behind him.

Back in his office, he'd made space for everything he enjoyed, for everything that interested him—but it wasn't enough. None of this was what he needed.

Rain was still pouring when he got in his vehicle and drove across town; a familiar route he had taken several times. Seeking information. He turned into the driveway.

The soft glow from windows indicated someone was awake—in the past, the night would have been the time when people worked in the house, but no longer. It had been nearly two years since he'd left Heather Kessler after finding her granddaughter and uniting them on the porch of this house.

At that time, the house had seemed bleak—cheerless—a house of sighs and sorrow, like its owner.

But tonight, even as the rain became a heavy downpour again, and Grissom stepped around a puddle that seemed to swallow most of the sidewalk and entered through an old wrought iron gate, he could not help but notice the colorful child size toys under the porte-cochere at one end of the house.

Shaking rain from the umbrella, he waited after ringing the doorbell—waited so long that he was startled when the door opened.

Surprise showed on Heather's face as she invited him in. For hours, they talked, drank tea, ate food that seemed to miraculously appear. At times he almost forgot about Sara—Sara's voice became Heather's. Sara's words came from Heather. Exhaustion finally pushed him into a chair. He could hear Sara's voice, see her face.

As the sun rose, as people worked—his team continued to work—as Heather realized, made him acknowledge the reason he had come to her—to her house—in the middle of the night. He missed Sara so deeply it caused deep pain within his chest—and at Heather's home, with a woman he cared for but did not love, with the only person in Vegas who would not judge him, who would not reassure him that he was doing the right thing.

Bluntly, she said what he did not believe—most relationships were over before they began—no, Heather was wrong, he thought. He never said their relationship was over; Sara had said "its better this way."

Heather looked concerned when she offered him a place to sleep.

Grissom knew he couldn't sleep—not in a strange bed, in a house with a history of violence—but things had changed. A little girl slept in a child's bed across the hall. Heather was—Heather—no longer a 'lady of darkness', no longer holding sinister secrets of a hidden society of Vegas.

On Heather's guest bed, his eyes seemed fogged; the pain in his head gnawed its way to the surface causing chaos with his vision. Through the window, he could see light creating patches of color in the trees. Was it dawn or sunset or streetlight; he had no idea how long he had been with Heather. As he waited for the pain to subside, he asked Heather to stay, but the hurt remained even as she covered his body with a blanket.

Grissom felt a breeze, waking disoriented in an unfamiliar bed with unusual sounds coming beyond the closed door. Heather's house—Heather's guest bedroom. He lifted the thin white blanket that covered his body. The breeze came from a ceiling fan, turning silently above the bed, fluttering the white curtains behind the mirror.

Prying heavy lids open as he heard the faint tread of steps, he looked through slits toward the door that was being carefully, quietly opened. His eyes opened fully as four small fingers showed on the edge of the door. Above the fingertips, one bright blue eye appeared.

The two stared at each other for a full minute as his mind cleared and he chuckled. This was Alison, Heather's granddaughter, spying on the rumpled stranger in the guest room.

Another voice caused the door to bump shut and he heard the patter of soft shoes running down the hall.

His eyes closed again; he had slept for hours, he thought. His head sank into the pillow.

"Gil?" A voice whispered into his ear.

This time, Grissom's eyes flew open to find Heather Kessler's face eye-to-eye with his. He gasped as he jerked away only to feel Heather's hand on his shoulder.

Smiling, standing up, Heather said, "You slept—nearly ten hours."

Grissom struggled to move; wrapped in a lightweight blanket, his feet were tangled, his right arm cramped. He still wore the same clothes but his shoes were off.

Seeing his confusion, Heather laughed, saying, "Don't worry. You were the perfect gentleman."

It took a quick second for him to grasp her joke and then he chuckled. "Did we have champagne?"

Another smile from Heather before she said, "Tea—chamomile and mint—it's always helps me sleep." She gave him a searching look. "You needed to sleep."

Finally, pushing himself up, Grissom said, "I—I was exhausted—did we—did we…" he shook his head, finding it difficult to put his thoughts into words.

"We talked—you talked. I listened."

"What did we talk about?"

Heather sat in the chair near the bed. He remembered her sitting there as he had drifted to sleep. He had talked about—about Sara.

"Did you mean what you said?" asked Heather. "Is that how you feel?"

He shook his head, trying to find the words he'd said in the darkness, finally saying, "I know Sara is the one person I love."

Heather's brown eyes were soft yet unyielding. "You need to do something—staying here—working until you are exhausted—will drain your life. I know you are hurt—no two of us hurt in the same way and none of us get better in the same way."

She leaned back in the chair. Grissom realized Heather was as comfortable as he'd ever seen her. Smiling at him, she continued, "You are a private man, Gil. A good man. Trustworthy, smart—out of all the people I've met in my life, you are the one I'd want to help me, to protect me from danger." Another smile, gentle, peaceful, as she softly spoke, "I don't love easily—I—I don't think you do either. When we do find that person—we are fortunate—blessed—my life has never been the same since the day I opened the door and—and you stood there," softly, she laughed, "with a goofy smile on your face—I didn't want to see anyone. I was in a dark and desperate place. In the next moment, I found hope."

She paused a moment, remembering, a smile on her face. "I'm happy, content, in love with a scrap of humanity wrapped in the form of a small child. Funny, isn't it? I had to go to hell to find happiness."

For several long moments, neither one spoke. Grissom had pulled up to sit on the bed; his feet rested on an expensive rug.

He heard himself saying, "People expect me to be skeptical because of what I do. I spend hours, days, looking into the last room in the house, the secret place that most people keep hidden from everyone. I find people who take lives—I get into their heads and into that hidden room where the monsters hide." Spreading his hands, he said, "But I see a beautiful world—alive, exquisite—from the smallest insect to the night sky."

Heather nodded. "When you see evil in the world, you appreciate the best."

Grissom stood, shaking his arms, looking around for his shoes to find them tucked underneath the bed. After slipping his feet into his shoes, he turned to Heather and extended his hand.

"Thank you, Heather."

She nodded, slightly, still smiling, and took his hand.

He knew what he had to do; not because he was good or trustworthy or smart but because he was in love—he'd known for weeks what he had to do and he had hidden behind work, dead bodies, the need to find killers, as though he was the only one who could do it.

Heather stood and folded into an embrace, without embarrassment, as friends, not lovers. And then they parted.

"Will you be all right?"

Grissom nodded. "I'm more than all right."

 _Thank you for reading, for reviews, for encouragement. A short break as real life events (good ones) take over for a couple of weeks-we'll be back with more._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: A new chapter! Enjoy!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 9**

Sara Sidle had done what few people managed to do in the age of email, internet, and cell phones. Quite simply, she had disappeared.

Grissom had sent emails, left voice messages, all with no responses, and finally, he called Laura Sidle who was rather reticent for several minutes—or she was talking in circles, he could never be certain. She opened up when he told her of his upcoming retirement from the crime lab—and he wanted to join Sara.

She had only the vaguest notion of where Sara was but she did know the country—even had a post card from Costa Rica—and came up with a name of a research group which turned out to be a twisted or mispronounced name that got him nowhere. After an exhaustive search, he found four research groups who took volunteers on short notice and with the fourth phone call, he found her.

Not Sara; she was deep in the rainforest of Costa Rica. It took several minutes to convince the woman on the phone he was the legitimate contact for Sara, and once she found his name, she freely provided information. By the time he'd asked a dozen questions, he learned where she was and how to find her—stressing he wanted to surprise Sara by arriving to celebrate a special occasion. The woman immediately became his best trip-planning friend.

Leaving the lab caused no sadness; he had made the decision to move on—to move forward—to enter into another part of his life. What caused a certain distress was leaving Hank but by the time he and the dog had spent two days with his mother, he knew he'd done the right thing. Hank made a good companion and his mother accepted the dog willingly, seeing the situation as temporary and one that pushed her son to make a decision.

Before he left her, Betty Grissom handed a small box to her son, signing, "It belonged to your grandmother. Her hands were like Sara's."

Inside the box was a slim band of gold, smooth with wear, as bright as it had been when it was new. A well-known jeweler name was engraved on the inside of the ring.

When his eyebrows arched in surprise, his mother smiled, signing, "Your grandfather believed in the best."

With that, his journey began…

Arriving in the late afternoon after taking increasingly smaller planes until it seemed he was flying in the back seat of a metal tube, Gil Grissom felt the familiar lift of a roller coaster as the airplane lifted quickly from the runway. The pilot bragged of the plane's efficiency and ability to take off and land in four hundred feet or less. By the time the single back wheel of the "tail dragger" left the ground, conversation was non-existent for thirty minutes as the plane gained altitude and flew above the thick green rain forest.

Grissom's thoughts went to everything he'd read about Costa Rica as he watched the lush scenery slide below the silver plane. Before Christopher Columbus landed on its shore resulting in the desiccation of the native people, Costa Rica had a population that traded in gold and jade, had built aqueducts, and had placed large granite balls along its western coast. But the mountains and forests made the area difficult to settle for most Europeans who came after Columbus and not until coffee and bananas arrived was farming successful and profitable. Ironically, the downfall of coffee prices played a primary role in the country's major shift to its green revolution. Bringing tourists and scientists in from around the world was now a cash 'crop'.

Over one-third of the country was classified as national parks, preserves, or wildlife reserves. Paradise found, according to a major tourist guide Grissom had read.

As the tiny plane floated toward a strip of clipped-paler green, he held his breath. Just like a roller coaster, the landing was surprisingly smooth.

"We made it with time and space to spare," the pilot said with a laugh as he helped extricate Grissom from the seat.

"Thank you!" Grissom could not help but notice the runway ended a few yards away from the nose of the plane; giant trees, tangled vines, and dense undergrowth grew in an impenetrable wall. At least there was no visible evidence of recent wreckage, he thought; then realized the rapid growth of vegetation would quickly hide anything that might be there.

"You must be Dr. Gil Grissom." A heavy-built man with short gray hair walked up, hand out. "I'm Thomas Marks—nice to meet you. I know you are a lucky man!"

When Grissom looked confused, Marks explained with a laugh, "All of us love Sara—brilliant brain, hard worker—and beautiful woman—and I've kept your surprise."

The two men left the pilot tying the plane down and headed to a long, low building built to blend into the landscape. Grissom found it difficult to respond to the other man's comments because of the scenery; he'd never seen any place that came close to what surrounded him.

It was a wilderness, a thousand shades of green topped by a brilliant blue dome; his eyes, his ears were overwhelmed. In the clear, late afternoon sky, birds soared. Sounds of insects, birds, and frogs reverberated across the clearing. When they reached the porch, Grissom stood for a few minutes, casting his eyes up, around, and back.

Thomas Marks held the screen door, chuckled softly, and said, "You'll get used to it—I've got ear plugs if you need them for a few nights."

Smiling, Grissom shook his head, "No, I want to hear it all. This is amazing."

Even the building amazed him as he was shown around. It was as if the house was living in nature, no intrusion at all, with window after window, screened with fine mesh that let in breezes and soft light. Beauty and functional, Grissom thought.

In a few minutes, he was shown to a room with two comfortable looking beds and a wall of windows. Sara's clothes took up half of the small closet. Down the hall, the bathroom was a shared facility—Marks suggested a shower before a group of researchers returned from a day in the field.

"The water's warm now but it goes quickly," he explained. "We have eighteen volunteers—most of them stay in tents for several days at a time—like Sara is doing this week, but a few work near enough to come in every night."

Grissom took the suggestion and quickly showered; afterwards, wiping away moisture that covered a small mirror, he saw the face of a very tired man looking back at him.

An hour later, minutes before darkness became complete, six sweaty people showed up, all cheerfully smiling, greeting him not as a stranger, but as an acquaintance with similar interests, sharing experiences, and telling jokes as they gathered in the common sitting-dining room. Finding the new arrival to be a willing listener, Grissom was never alone as each researcher disappeared for a few minutes to reappear in clean clothes and damp hair. The last three men jovially complained about the lack of warm water for showers, an obviously running joke among the group.

Hunger, exhaustion, or relief brought an appetite and Grissom ate beans wrapped in fresh tortillas covered with soft cheese, a generous scoop of rice with peppers and onions, fried plantains, and a bowl of salad with tomatoes, avocadoes, and carrots. All of it as tasteful as any food he had eaten in weeks.

The pilot had flown in with boxes of food—including sweet cakes for dessert—but the best of it—frozen beef and chicken—was reserved for Friday and Saturday nights when the cook fired up his grill. He joined with the others as they told stories—obviously embellished—of adventures in far-off places. Talk was easy, and entertaining, on a variety of topics ranging from local politics to fields of study.

Just as quickly as they had appeared, the group quieted and disappeared toward the bedroom wing but not before one explained to Grissom the path to Sara was in the direction they would go the next morning—adding a couple of hours to his hike from their station. Thomas Marks presented Grissom with a hand-held GPS and explained how it worked.

"The dot—that's where you'll find Sara."

At the mention of her name, Grissom's hand went to his shirt pocket where he pressed the ring against his chest.

The next morning, Grissom woke to a cool breeze bringing in the sounds of the rainforest. Quickly dressing, stopping at the bathroom on his way to the voices he'd heard, he found breakfast—more beans and tortillas along with eggs and coffee—and preparations being made for the day.

One of the researchers—Nancy, who's research involved a locally identified rare beetle—helped him pack a small back pack with water and snacks.

She said, "Try to start back before noon. You'll be walking down the mountain as you go in—coming out, it's more of a climb than you realize." She glanced at her colleagues and lowered her voice to a whisper. "We've loved having Sara here—she's a hard worker, but she's—I'd say melancholy if anyone used the word now—but she has a gentle sadness about her when she doesn't think anyone is watching." She smiled, "I think she'll be happy today."

Grissom followed the group into the rainforest; it was another world. A world of cool shadows, gentle light, of rich scents, of creatures unseen but heard. And yet, it was not threatening. After an hour, he left the group, gaining solitude, grateful for a well-marked trail that made twisting turns through a living rainforest. There were hundreds of reasons to stop, but he kept to the trail, finding it easy going, with one destination, one thought, one person, in his mind.

Checking the GPS, Grissom saw he should be arriving at the remote field research station but try as he might, he could not see more than a few feet into the undergrowth. His feet stayed on the trail as he picked up faint sounds of human voices.

Suddenly, he stumbled to a stop. Sunlight, no longer dappled with shade, beamed through the high trees to a man-made clearing. Grissom looked ahead of him and there she was. Sara.

Sara, her back to him, in a pose all too familiar, was aiming a camera at something above her head. His eyes never left her as the same thought that had been running around his brain for days seemed to explode—would she be happy to see him?

A moment later, she turned, instantly dropping the camera to her side; a look of disbelief flashed across her face—only for a second—before her mouth lifted its corners.

There was nothing left to do—he walked forward into adored arms.

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone who has continued to read and review!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: A new chapter! And if you haven't reviewed, take a few seconds to send us a comment! Thanks!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **CHAPTER 10**

For three days Grissom followed Sara; for three nights, he slept in the bed next to hers. Four feet between the beds. As he punched the pillow another time, turning to the 'cool' side, he willed himself to sleep.

Physical work and long days combined with a daily hike into the rainforest to work with Nancy as she looked for the rare beetle, exhausted everyone—him most of all. But now, his fourth night beside, separated from Sara, who's soft breathing indicated she was asleep, by four feet led to insomnia. He realized he had not thought about what would happen after he arrived, but he didn't think it'd be this way.

His mind went back to their meeting; she was happy to see him, hugging him, keeping her hand in his as she introduced him to the others. She had quickly wiped away tears that formed as she'd gathered her belongings. They had left the remote research station and she questioned him about his retirement—obviously astonished that he had come to join her—and questioned him about Hank, his mother, the team, even Natalie, as they walked back to the research center.

She had been loving and kind—and, he thought—hesitant as he had unpacked. And she had remained hesitant as the first day became the second and third day. They worked within a few feet of each other all day, always amiable good-natured and good-humored—as she was with everyone else. She would be up and dressed before he woke; in bed by the time he reached the room at night. She kissed him each morning and each night but managed to avoid any intimate contact. And while he did not want to push her, he ached for physical contact, for the intimacy they had enjoyed. To have her beside him instead of four feet away. To put the ring he kept in his shirt pocket on her finger.

Punching his soft pillow again, he rolled over and stared into the darkness that was outside the screened windows. He knew frustration was not the answer yet his hand formed a fist; he wanted to hit something and the only thing available was the mattress.

To his surprise, tears sprang to his eyes. His clinched fist ground against the sheet. He told himself it was love for her that tore through him as his eyes moistened again. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep breaths, trying to drive his emotions into a cage he kept well buried.

He didn't know how long his eyes were closed, but gradually his senses came back. He heard bird sounds; he smelled the damp forest after a brief rain. He realized there was soft light in the room. As though coming into the world again, his eyes adjusted and he saw Sara standing by his bed. The light was behind her so all he could see was her outline. He saw her hand reach out.

His own hand rose and landed softly in hers.

Slowly, seemingly taking long minutes, she came to the bed, sitting beside him, folding her hands over his. Her hands were delicate with slim fingers covering his. In that instant, he knew the gold ring would fit her perfectly. A gentle fingertip traced across his knuckles.

In a whisper, she said, "From the first moment I saw you, I knew. All those years ago—I knew I loved you. I'm not sure I knew what it was other than a connection—one I felt so strongly that I—I moved to Vegas to work with you. To be with you."

Grissom saw a brief smile on her lips as she hesitated before continuing, "I love you and I need you."

His eyes burned as she leaned over his face and kissed him, softly, on his lips. He whispered, "I love you, Sara." His fist opened and moved to her hair.

They parted and he sat up. He could not bend his legs into a yoga pose as Sara did, but they managed comfortable positions, their knees touching, hands together.

"Tell me," she whispered.

He told her—of visiting Heather Kessler, of a small Korean boy who murdered, of a soap doll hanging from a string, and of old lovers who were lost to each other—and of a restlessness he had never known. He decided it was time to change. By the time he told her of taking Hank to his mother, she was stretched beside him and his fingers were gently touching her face.

And she talked about why she left—not directly but gave him an analogy her psychiatrist had told her. How we entered life as babies in a long hallway with many doors along its path and exited when we died. In between, we moved along, selecting some doors to open, leaving others closed, and everyone, every thought, every action from those opened rooms came with us. Became part of us; the good, the bad. And until we made peace with the unlikable, unpleasant, and horrible people, thoughts, and actions, they would run our lives, flashing before us when least expected.

"That's my life, Gil," Sara whispered. "I'm sorry I left you—I knew if I didn't leave—if I stayed in Vegas, I'd jump into that dark hole again." She sighed. "My stay in San Francisco—I think I've finally made peace with that part of my past—it was time to leave." She paused and sighed. "I ran because I thought my problem was location—it's not—it's," briefly, she smiled. "I needed a—a change—to change."

She sighed again, and then took a deep breath. "People can change," she said. "I've changed—I think I've found myself."

Grissom smoothed her hair and looked at her face with such certainty that she shivered. "I'm here—with you." Quietly, he chuckled, saying, "It took me a little longer to realize it was time to leave." He could feel Sara's heart beating against his chest. "I—I'm in the process of changing."

He leaned nearer and she closed her eyes. And then he was kissing her.

After three days and three nights, in the early hours of the fourth day, they became lovers again. On a long tidal wave of passion, his body, his heart, starved, leaped into a pool of pleasure. Sara responded with demanding hands and a low moan as his arms wrapped around her body. Responses so long deadened and ignored snapped into life and sizzled.

He had to touch her, had to feel her flesh under his hands. Tugging at her shirt, fueled by a sexual rush that made him feel like a teenager, his hands swept upward, his thumbs found the rise of her breasts. She trembled under his touch.

A sudden rain storm slapped against the awnings over the windows. The air was warm, fragrant with flowers and, as his nose and mouth met her breast, with the scent of her. The rain hid the delicious little sounds that were purring in her throat. He wanted to gulp her down, plunge into her soft body. But he did not; slowly, he explored.

He kissed her as if he couldn't get enough—with impatience and heat and hunger—would never get enough. When he would draw away, she went with him, sliding tender hands against his body. Her lips curved against his mouth as his teeth gently took her bottom lip.

She was flipping the buttons of his shirt; pulling him on top of her once she had opened his shirt.

"Hurry," a breathless whisper as she arched under him pushing his pants down, freeing him.

His hands stroked, slow and firm, touching her in intimate places that brought soft gasps and responses he remembered.

She was eager, hips arched, hands touched him that aroused him even more. And he forgot about patience and feasted. A wave of pleasure caused a soft croon of his name as he stroked her, finding her hot, wet, and pulling him inside her.

In short minutes, she exploded under him, her body wildly plunging against his. She moved with him, held him close, as she surrendered to his hands and mouth and watched him range over her.

As his pace quickened, as he plunged into her, as a desperate sound was muffled against her neck, his passion took the final leap, leaving him shattered and stupefied.

For a while, they were quiet; the sheets were tangled and damp. Sara was as limp as water.

Finally, she said, "I feel like a virgin—was a virgin." She giggled, softly, kissing his neck as the sound bubbled from her throat.

Running his hand through her hair, he replied, "I feel like I've been in a desert." He kissed the top of her head and then fanned the sheet over them.

A rain-cooled breeze blew through the windows; rain continued to hit the awnings, a steady drumbeat on wood. Grissom realized the sound of rain wasn't just on the awnings, but was coming from the forest, cascading through dense foliage and onto the undergrowth. Trails would be waterfalls, he realized.

He asked, "What do we do when it rains?"

Expecting one response, he was surprised when Sara said, "We stay here—read, sleep, do laundry, review field notes—eat." She kissed him on the cheek. "And if we can find music, we can do this again." A stifled giggle ruffled his hair.

With great care, he moved Sara and got up from the bed, moving with a suddenly remembered stagger to where his shirt hung on a peg. A few second later, he turned to find Sara watching him, a smug smile across her face. He was naked and sweaty and the light that had been soft earlier seemed to reflect off his pale skin in a harsh glare.

Quickly, he got back in bed and covered himself with the sheet. Putting an arm around Sara's shoulders, he said, "I asked once and I was unprepared—now, I'm asking again." He opened his closed hand. The soft light reflected in the gold ring giving it a luminous radiance as it lay in the palm of his hand.

"Will you marry me, Sara Sidle."

A quiet puff of air came from Sara. For a second, she hesitated before she picked it up. Holding the ring with her thumb and index finger, she turned it as the light bounced and reflected on the gold band.

"It belonged to my grandmother," Grissom said as he took the ring, lifted her left hand, and slipped the ring on her finger. He smiled, "Perfect fit."

Sara stretched her arm, moving her hand, and wiggling her fingers. "It fits!" Surprise evident in her face.

Thinking his mother had been right, he said, "Do you think we can figure out how to get married?"

Sara's laughter quieted when he kissed her. Together, they slipped underneath the sheet, rain still falling, and found passion had not waned but recharged.

 _A/N: More to come...real life happens and slows writing sometimes so hang out, enjoy summer, and another chapter will come your way! Reviews appreciated!_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thank you for staying with us! Enjoy the honeymoon!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter** **11**

Getting married in Costa Rica was one of the easiest things Gil Grissom had ever done. He handed over his passport, signed a form after providing names and dates, and handed the pen to Sara. He couldn't stop grinning.

And no one had ever been as beautiful as Sara on this day. His hand rested on her back as she answered the same questions, handed her passport over, and signed her name. He took her hand as she passed the pen to one of their two witnesses.

Nancy, the beetle researcher, and Thomas Marks' wife, Candace, had taken charge of—he chuckled—of everything. Sara had called a halt to their excited plans for a wedding, explaining their mothers and friends would never understand—never forgive—a wedding in Costa Rica. All they needed was an attorney licensed to marry couples.

Her request had stopped plans for twinkling lights, music, and cake. But not for flowers—Sara wore white flowers in her hair. She refused a special outfit—Sara did not wear a dress, but she did wear a new soft pink shirt.

Several days before their appointment to marry with the attorney, the two women had talked Sara into going shopping with them. A woman who's idea of shopping was a fifteen-minute trip through Target once a month headed out in a four-wheel drive double cab truck with the two women right after dawn. Grissom had no idea where they were going—and they did not return until late afternoon.

Sara's face was flushed with excitement as she described the small town with open-air markets, a restaurant where they had eaten delicious food for lunch, meeting the man who would perform their official ceremony, and, with great flourish, presented him with a new shirt in a bright blue and a new hat, a white Panama.

He had never known her to be excited about shopping and decided to keep his thoughts to himself; she was excited about getting married.

And today, after their witnesses had signed the marriage document, he had held Sara's hand and slipped his grandmother's ring on her finger. She grinned from ear to ear as she turned to Candace, retrieved a similar ring, and pushed it on his finger.

Surprise showed on his face until it dawned on him she'd purchased the ring on the previous shopping trip and kept it secret.

Thomas Marks took photos as they kissed, as they stood together holding the marriage certificate in their hands; he kept on taking photographs until Sara started making goofy faces and took the camera out of his hands

"Enough already!" She laughed and took a photo of Thomas and Candace.

Leaving the paperwork with the attorney who had pronounced them husband and wife, Grissom and Sara were led to a roof-top restaurant where their new friends toasted with beer and wine and ate delicious local vegetarian dishes, salads of sweet blueberries and strawberries, another of Brussels sprouts and arugula and avocadoes, and a "Russian" salad of beets, potatoes, and carrots; bright red peppers stuffed with rice, beans, and corn came with several salsas. Before they backed away from the table, the chef presented an array of beautifully prepared desserts of sweet pastries covered with honey, a citrus pudding, and tres leches cake.

Nancy and Candace beamed with satisfaction as the newlyweds happily shared their joy on their wedding day and jointly related how they had met. Candace and Thomas talked about their wedding, twenty-two years earlier, in Costa Rica.

"I was thrilled I didn't have to change my name to marry him!" Candace said. "And I never did—not even when we had kids. Probably the reason I kept returning—Costa Rica has such a strong matriarchy society—I fit right in!"

As surprised as Grissom had been about the wedding band from Sara, it was his turn to surprise her.

When they left the restaurant, next to the research facility's old four-wheel drive truck, a bright blue vehicle was parked; a driver stood near the front. As Grissom opened one of the rear doors, the group laughed at Sara's confusion.

"It doesn't belong to us!" Candace said with a laugh.

Nancy hugged Sara saying, "In a week, you'll be back to eating beans and sleeping in a tent!"

Thomas gently embraced Sara. "The place owes me a favor or two—enjoy your week—your honeymoon."

"And don't let this guy look at bugs all week," added Nancy. She whispered, "I packed your bag—you have everything!" Her eyebrows danced as her eyes widened in a quiet moment of female confidentiality. "Everything!"

Their plans for a two-night stay in the small town vanished as the driver placed their bags in the back of the SUV and got behind the wheel.

"There's a cooler behind you if you want anything to drink," the man said. "I'm David and I'm your driver to the best resort in Costa Rica!"

Sara and Grissom had barely drawn a breath before the group of researchers disappeared and the vehicle was gaining speed on the outskirts of town.

"We are going southwest of the research center—to the coast," the driver explained. "It's a family-owned resort, very private—and you have to be special guests for Thomas Marks to call my boss."

The man went on to explain the history of the area and the connection between the family and the researcher. He said, "It's about an hour's drive." He passed a small notebook to Sara. "Here's what's in store for you so sit back and enjoy—unlike the research center, the resort is a place where we do the work—you relax."

A few hours later, Grissom and Sara stared at the view from the room—a term both knew did not apply to where they were standing. It was a tree house—a round tree house—built among trees with an unobstructed view to the Pacific ocean, to a meandering river, to the rainforest, and, if one hung over the balcony rail, to several resort buildings nestled among trees.

The floor of wide wooden planks reflected soft sunlight. Overhead, beams of dark wood spread as spokes on a wheel. Bright woven rugs were placed around the room. It was bright and calm.

The kitchen, with no upper cabinets, had high windows over a smooth countertop. The polished wood dining table sat in the center. Armchairs, a sofa in crisp white linen covered with colorful pillows, arranged for taking in views. The windows—everywhere except where gauzy white curtains shielded a bathroom as large as the one in their Vegas condo. It had wide double-doors opening to the balcony with a view of the ocean. Privacy was provided by height and the dense rainforest that grew below and above the structure.

They had been asked preferences for food and times for meals, for activities like canoeing and kayaking, provided with maps with paths into the maze of gardens and trails into the lush rainforest around them. And to Grissom's obvious delight, he was introduced to the guide for the butterfly observatory; over one thousand species in Costa Rica and the resort's regeneration project had hundreds, including Blue Morpho, Juliette, and glasswings.

A knock at the door caused both to turn; Grissom saying "enter".

A woman dressed in the resort's uniform of a bright shirt and shorts pushed a cart into the room. Quickly explaining her mission, she filled the small refrigerator and cabinets with food, left a large package on the table with "compliments of the owners".

As soon as the door closed, Grissom checked the refrigerator, selecting two beers, while Sara opened the package to find two hats, two swimsuits, flip-flops, sunscreen, bottles for water, and a small insulated bag.

She looked at the two beers before asking, "Anything other than beer—maybe water? And fruit—didn't I see fruit?"

"Water, fruit juice, a couple of bottles of wine, cheese, nuts, fruit, chips, crackers of some kind, cookies," he said as he opened a cabinet. "Cookies—Chilky Blaks and Marias."

"Nuts, please—and you'll love the Chilky Blaks."

By the time they had explored the tree house, bounced several times on the king-size bed, followed a private path to the beach, walked in the gentle surf, and returned to their room, it was time to watch the sun drop into the ocean.

Sitting in chairs with their feet propped on the balcony rail, Grissom said, "We've had a wonderful day for an old married couple." He squeezed Sara's hand.

Laughing, she said, "Can you believe we did it?"

Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers, giving her arm a tug. A few minutes later, she was sharing his chair and in the middle of a very passionate kiss, Sara jerked away.

"Someone came in the door," she whispered.

Grissom pulled her face back to his, whispering, "The concierge told us dinner would arrive around sunset, remember?" Kissing her across her cheek to her mouth, he mumbled, "I'm sure they've seen much more than what we're doing."

Sara didn't relax until she heard the door click shut.

She said, "Now, I want to see our dinner—I'm starved!"

Untangling, they got out of the chair and slowly wandered toward the kitchen area and came to an abrupt stop at the oval table.

"Oh, wow!"

Grissom chuckled. "Somehow, I didn't expect this—but then I'm not surprised." He walked around and pulled out a chair. "For you, dear—on our wedding night."

A pale green cold soup filled bowls; a pastry crust enclosed tomatoes, sliced zucchini, and, as Sara inhaled, softly saying "cheese—mozzarella" filled half of each dinner plate. A mushroom tart sat between the two plates. And in the center of the table, covered with a glass dome, was a tiered plate of cupcakes—not big frosty one, but small, almost bite size, with creamy white or chocolate toppings.

Sara laughed. "Suddenly, I'm hungry again."

"Wine, beer, juice, or water?"

"Juice," she answered.

Several minutes of silence passed as they tucked into the mouth-watering meal; their only sounds were ones of satisfaction with the taste of food.

After everything had been tasted at least once, Grissom placed his spoon next to the bowl of soup and asked, "You can tell me, you know."

Sara's eyes met his with a question.

"No beer, no wine—since when?" He picked up his spoon and ate the cold soup; avocado, basil, and cucumber, he thought.

Sara folded her hands together. Her cheeks flushed. Quietly, she said, "We—we talked about—you know—birth control."

Grissom's spoon slipped from his fingers as the penny dropped. "Oh—you're not? Can you be?"

Sara smiled, picked up his spoon and placed it in his hand. "We are two healthy people having sex—without birth control. I—I don't think I am—but I—I don't want to drink alcohol if I could be."

With eyes that glimmered and danced, his lips curled into a smile as he watched Sara. Grissom said, "Well, I hadn't had sex in a while." Quietly, he laughed. "So, I was loaded."

Grissom did not voice his thoughts, but the possibility of being a father at his age pleased him more than he realized. He watched Sara's face, soften and smile as she talked about fertility and age and possibilities. She was happy.

They managed to finish the meal with easy conversation that moved to plans for the next day and then placed all the dishes in a small cart that had been left near the door. Holding in check the ebbing and flowing of passion, they took quick showers in the beautifully tiled bathroom; Sara insisted he wait for her in the bedroom as she showered. She had a surprise, she said with an impish grin.

When Sara walked into the bedroom, there was enough moonlight to have no need for lights. Grissom made an audible gasp at the sight of her. Mostly pale skin but her breasts, her hips, were covered with wispy delicate lace in white. Instinctively, he knew what she wore had been found on her shopping trip.

"Sara." It was a whisper carried on a breeze.

When her lips met his, when her fingers tightened in his hair, a fierce explosion of passion occurred. The taste of her was intoxicating. The lace fell away as his hands closed around her firm breasts. He felt taut nipples in his palms. With a groan, he released her mouth and bent to take a tight nipple between his teeth.

Sara arched herself against him. Her hand slid across his back, down his spine to his back side; then he felt her fingers on sensitive skin.

He shuddered and she stopped.

"Don't stop."

Her hand reached between them, finding his erection, running warm fingers to its base, wrapping him in her palm. She purred, "You feel very solid."

His fingers played among the curls that marked the juncture of her legs. Bemused, he said, "And you are very, very soft."

She opened her legs as he stroked her, wet and yielding beneath his palm, his fingers explored until ragged breaths meant he could wait no longer. Sara's hands were on his back; he fitted himself to her and pushed into her. She gave a small groan as her body closed around him, drawing him into the damp heat.

Within seconds of the other, they sailed into the passionate whirlpool of climax; one on the other. He held on, controlled until he knew she had released her passion, and then he was crushing, driving into her as she contracted around him.

He was lost as convulsions wracked him; shutting his eyes as exhausting pleasure swept over him.

It seemed an infinitely long time later when Grissom opened his eyes but he knew it had not been long because the moonlight had not changed—it just seemed as if he had floated for an eternity. He shifted and tightened his arm around Sara as she stirred.

"Are you happy?"

He could see her smile. "Yes, completely." Her hand lifted and her ring caught moonlight. "And you, husband, are you happy?"

"Yes."

Their quiet chuckles turned into laughter. Sara lifted her head as he pulled her closer so he could kiss her again.

"Rest," he finally said. He settled beside her and nestled her closer. "I love you, Sara Sidle. I don't want to live without you—I've realized—you are my hope for happiness. How did you manage to reach inside me—change the person I always thought I'd be." He paused to kiss her damp skin and smiled at the steady breathing of sleep that came from his wife.

For a week, the couple woke to find breakfast placed on the table, a picnic lunch packed and waiting for an adventure—or to eat while sitting on a quiet beach. After a day spent hiking or boating or swimming or watching butterflies or doing nothing, dinner was delivered to the tree house as the sun set.

The second day, as they paddled a canoe along the quiet river, Grissom was ecstatic to see several Blue Morpho butterflies, one of the largest in the world, minutes after emerging from their chrysalises. Sara laughed as he clambered out of the canoe and splashed through water onto the shore line to get a closer look.

Floating on blue sea kayaks on their third day, Sara was overjoyed as a small pod of gentle bottlenose dolphins swam within several feet of their boats.

Each day, they watched as the sun slipped passed the horizon, setting the ocean on fire in the process. And each night, as the moon passed over the forest and spread its light across the bed, they loved each other.

 _A/N: Please leave a comment or review! We'll be back in a few weeks with another chapter as Real Life takes over for a while!_


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N:** Sorry for the delay-enjoy!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 12**

In Paris, June is a perfect month; sunny days and warm, gentle evenings. The weather opens terrace cafes and overhead conversations are about fashion, movies, politics, and love affairs.

Gil Grissom heard none of the voices as his clear, blue eyes scanned the crowd outside of the building he had just exited. He was relaxed, hands in his pockets, as he inhaled air fragrant with blooming flowers. Smiling, he thought he might have a French soul because everything around him lifted his spirits. And when his eyes found the person he sought, his smile broadened.

Sara. Readily, he admitted to himself how French she appeared. A pink and gray silky scarf was arranged around her neck in some complicated style Parisian women wore easily. Simply beautiful, he thought as he walked toward his wife. The large brown dog obediently sitting beside her added to the appearance of a woman who knew how to live in Paris.

They greeted each other as lovers, laughing, kissing each other, wrapping arms around the other, and, in the midst of their embrace, he bent to scratch Hank's ears. Then he hugged Sara again.

They walked toward the river and Sara talked about her day. They turned several corners arriving in a neighborhood that was away from tourist attractions and where merchants knew customers. They made the rounds of the shops, picking up a selection of cheeses from a small fromager and fruit and vegetables from a grocer, before arriving at the bakery.

Grissom scratched his beard as he glanced around the shelves and baskets filled with fresh, crusty bread; some of it still hot from the ovens. Inhaling the familiar smell, his head tilted as his eyes found Sara, quickly moving from her face to her chest to her backside and then back to her face.

She took his breath; her summer shirt moved in a gentle wave as she turned, catching his candidly lascivious glance, smiling at him, obviously knowing what he was thinking by the sly grin that turned the corners of her mouth upward.

Two women in line were taking their time selecting bread, talking to the baker behind the counter in rapid French. He waited at the door, holding Hank's leash, watching and listening. His French was improving but Sara's was better.

She selected a baguette, testing it with her long fingers, nodding approval, responding in French to the baker's comment as she handed him the money for the bread.

Grissom had held the door open for the other shoppers and, as he and Sara left, he placed his hand on her back; protective, he thought, and quickly realized it was more possessive. He had seen the baker's look.

They walked together, easily matching strides; both turned faces to the sun. Sara tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She said, "This is a wonderful life, dear. Summer in Paris, no work, getting up late, good coffee, fresh bread for every meal." Slipping her hand around his elbow, she laughed, saying, "For the first time in my life, I have nothing, no one dictating how I spend every minute!" She gave him a mock frown. "I'm in a personal limbo. Reading books I've always wanted to read. Visiting museums and galleries seeing what I want to see."

Grissom moved his hand from her back to her shoulder as they turned a corner and entered a small, unpretentious apartment building. They had looked at other places more grand, but this one had the advantage of two views—from the one bedroom window, they could see the Eiffel Tower; the living room with its small balcony and casement windows overlooked a park. The view made the furnishings, all old and undistinguished, more comfortable. And Sara had insisted they wanted to spend time in Paris with Parisians, not tourists; she had gotten her wish.

They took three flights of stairs to their apartment; an elderly elevator cage housed a small elevator but was rarely used because of its propensity to stop between floors. By the time they reached the door, both were laughing and a little breathless from a climb that never got old or easier.

Grissom retrieved an ancient key, weighing heavily in his hand, and unlocked the door. Hank headed to his water bowl as soon as his lead was removed. Sara placed the bags on a small table and managed a one foot turn to the refrigerator without taking a step.

Grissom interrupted her move with a hug and a kiss that quickly turned passionate because hunger came in more ways than appetite. Quietly, he whispered, "I like this 'limbo' you're in right now. I like sleeping with you—spending evenings with you." Still holding her, he opened the refrigerator, removing several items to prepare for dinner. "And I especially enjoy having my wife and my dog waiting after my last lecture."

A few minutes later, he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.

They moved easily in the small kitchen, comfortable when they bumped each other, as they prepared a simple dinner of pasta with steamed vegetables and fresh bread. Grissom carried a tray of baguette, cheeses, and fruit to the living room, placing it on a table before large windows while Sara brought in plates of pasta.

The view from the windows of the small park was mostly obscured by leafy trees, but they could hear the sound of children playing.

As they ate, Grissom talked about the students in his classes, mostly young Americans in Paris for the summer, and the research he was doing with two others. Sara described her day, quiet hours in the library and a long walk with Hank before meeting him.

"It's such a beautiful city," Sara said. "Narrow streets, the old buildings—it truly is like walking in a theme park—except it's a living, gracious city." She told him of hearing young girls singing, lyrics to a rap song with English curse words. "They had no idea what the words mean!"

Placing his fork on his plate, he spread a soft cheese on a chuck of bread and chuckled. They considered this time as an extended honeymoon; only a few people knew where they were which meant they depended on each other for conversation and companionship. Occasionally, Grissom thought about Sara's isolation but she seemed happy exploring the city with Hank and reading a book a day.

He knew she quietly worried—about her mother, about their condo in Vegas, about the absence of a certain expectation. His hand reached out to touch her thigh.

"The best thing about being here is you," he said softly.

Her smile was genuine as she leaned to his face and kissed him on his cheek. "How are your butterflies—chrysalis—doing?" She asked. "Shouldn't they be becoming butterflies soon?"

His research—not his alone—he was an 'added researcher' to an on-going project and the primary reason they were in Paris.

Nodding, he finished his pasta and spread cheese on another piece of bread, handing it to Sara before answering her questions.

"We think tomorrow or the next day." His eyebrows lifted as he asked, "Do you want to help? We can rotate the watch—you and I can take the night shift."

"It'll be like Vegas," Sara said, laughing as she swallowed the last of her wine and gathered plates. "Sometimes I miss the night shift."

He heard a note of sadness in her voice before she said, "I'm not sure they will ever forgive me for leaving like I did—without a word."

"We'll be back—and they still love you," he said. "I'm sure they've figured out we are together—and they understand the stress you were under." Following her to the kitchen, he added, "What they will never forgive is you getting married! I know at least two guys who always had hopes about you."

His teasing was not new and Sara had learned to protest and playfully argue with his supposition.

Tonight, she stopped him with, "I've only had eyes for you, dear, from the first time my eyes met yours." She leaned over stacked plates and kissed him, turning his tease into a suggestion of things to come.

After a quick clean-up, they headed outside into the evening. The streets were clogged with couples, families, and groups of young people who all seemed to be in a reveling celebration. They watched a juggler in the park as he threw cups into the air. In the next block, three old men played instruments while another sang the lyrics of _"La Mer"_ , a song about the beauty of the ocean and couples danced on the sidewalk.

Their walk finally brought them back to their apartment where open windows had cooled the rooms and street lights provided a twilight glow of luminosity. It was true—Paris was for lovers and neither was immune to this.

Eventually, they got their clothes off, showered in the small bathroom, and came together in their bed only slightly larger than one Sara had in her first apartment in Vegas. Slowly, sensually, they did everything they liked to do, quietly accompanied by soft sighs that seemed to recharge Grissom. He told her he loved her body; she said she loved the way he touched her.

Words faded as he kissed her, feeling the heat and desire rise. He held her, stroked her, felt her tremble under his touch as a flood of passion overwhelmed her. Instead of fitting himself between her legs, he slid the length of her body, gently easing her legs apart, and put his mouth on her.

Sara moaned at his gentle caress, gripping the sheets with one hand, his hair with the other. A few seconds later, release came as she seemed to soar off the bed.

Grissom moved, suddenly on top of her, pushing himself into her, groaning as she contracted around him. He moved within her, sinking deeper with each thrust. As quickly as she had climaxed, his back arched as he poured himself into her.

A short while later, Grissom opened his eyes, feeling a warm hand on his chest. As he covered Sara's hand with his own, he whispered, "Thank you, Sara."

When she giggled and raised her head so she could look at him with a perplexed expression on her face, he added, "Thank you for coming to Paris with me—for putting things on hold for a few months while I chase a dream."

She dropped her head to his chest, kissed him, and snuggled closer. A few minutes later, his breathing slowed into the restful rhythm of sleep.

They had just made very passionate love, enjoyable love. Sara's eyes closed but she did not sleep, not yet. She loved this reprieve from what she considered "real life" yet she knew it would end soon. After so many years, her beloved Gil had opened his heart and found his dreams. She knew he would find another project, another venture—somewhere.

Slipping her hand to his shoulder, she raised her thumb and caressed his jaw. She loved him so much it made her ache deep inside her chest. One thought came to her mind—a quote she'd heard years ago and had no idea why she thought of it now-"Life takes care of itself"—she sighed.

For now, she was with him, in Paris, loving him, being loved by him. For now.

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! Leaving a review makes us happy-gives us encouragement!_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading. A special thank you to those who review and comment! If you haven't commented recently, please do!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 13**

Even in Paris, it was an extraordinary day, clear and light-filled. The sky dazzled a perfect blue, unmarred by clouds with a brilliant sun shining on gardens, sidewalks, bridges, and the thousands of people who were outside.

Grissom and Sara walked through narrow streets and along wide boulevards for several hours, holding hands, comfortable in their own companionship. They walked into the heart of Paris over the Pont Neuf, the 'new bridge' built in 1607 and the oldest bridge in the city, pausing to look at their surroundings just as thousands of others had done for centuries.

They turned toward Sainte-Chapelle, the chapel Sara considered the most beautiful building in Paris because of its stained glass windows. Eighty-five beautiful panels—she had counted them one day. Edging around the square in front of Notre-Dame which was filled shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists, they entered the flower market. Only on Sundays it was filled with birds which Sara did not appreciate as much as she did the flowers, but found it interesting. So many old men selling brightly colored birds was odd, she thought.

Eventually, the couple made their way to the second island in the Seine across the pedestrian footbridge. Fewer tourists made it easy to stroll on narrow streets, past the elegant facades of century's old palaces; occasionally they could glimpse inner courtyards. They found one palace open for tours and purchased tickets.

The building, now state owned, officially named Hotel Lauzun and built as a townhouse, took their breath as they walked through rooms with gold-painted walls, cherubs carved of marble, ceilings painted with frescos by gifted, unknown artists and intricate inlaid-wood floors. The tour guide spoke French as she described the history of the palace, the various owners, and the state of restoration.

Leaving the island, they wandered streets filled with students and the cafes and bookstalls catering to them. When they got to the church of Saint-Severin, Sara urged Grissom to enter it.

"In any other city, this would be a top attraction," Sara whispered as they walked into the cool church and stood quietly, adjusting eyes to the soft light and the silence. They move forward, walking toward the altar, their eyes taking in the modern and ancient windows.

The late afternoon sun shining through the high stained-glass windows amplified and brightened the beautiful interior. They had the place almost to themselves and, as if their entrance had given a magical signal, someone began playing the organ. Grissom tugged Sara into a row of chairs.

Sara was surprised that Grissom was mesmerized by the music. She glanced at him several times, saying nothing, understanding that he was enjoying the private recital. After thirty minutes, the playing stopped as suddenly as it had begun and a serene quiet descended on the church.

Grissom's eyes met Sara's; he said "When I hear something like this, and see all the beauty in this city—when I think about man's incredible talent, I can't help wondering how man can also be the perpetrator of such stupendous evil. It boggles my mind."

Sara was surprised; he rarely spoke of evil or crime or his previous work in Vegas. He had turned the last page of that 'book' and placed his past experience in a bookcase that he rarely brought out.

Turning to her, he took her hand in his, smiled, and stood, leading her back to the front door of the church.

Before stepping into the sunlight, he blinked several times before saying, "The beauty of music—and buildings like this—make life bearable." He squeezed her hand. "We're going to see a lot of beautiful things."

Surprised at his words, Sara said, "I think so."

When they found a small coffee shop on a side street, they went in and found an empty table barely large enough to hold two cups. They ordered coffee and a plate of cream filled pastries.

Sara took a bite of pastry and immediately giggled as the cream-filling covered her upper lip. As she dabbed her mouth, Grissom's phone dinged with an incoming message.

Surprise registered on both faces. He rarely used the phone but kept it with him for messages from his mother which usually came on a weekly basis—and not usually on Sundays.

His expression went from surprise to one of bemused puzzlement when he looked at the small screen. Only a few people had this number—Jim Brass was one and the message was not from Brass. It was from Conrad Ecklie. Not wanting to say Ecklie's name before reading the message, Grissom punched the screen and brought his eyeglasses out of his pocket.

"Let's see what this is all about," he muttered.

He was silent for several long minutes before Sara asked, "Has something happened to your mom?"

Shaking his head, he passed the phone to her, saying "Ecklie."

A quick reader, a few seconds later, Sara wiped her mouth of non-existent crumbs, and softly chuckle. "Are things so bad that he really wants your help?" Her mouth twisted in thought. "Or in his way, is Ecklie asking you to return?"

Again, shaking his head, Grissom said, "Ecklie knows I'm not returning." He shrugged as Sara handed the phone back. "I'll try to think of someone he can call to help out."

Late that night, Grissom and Sara had the discussion they had been, for some time, avoiding. The night was cool, breezy, given radiance by street lights, and a promise of another beautiful day tomorrow.

Grissom pulled two chairs to the open windows and, once they had settled in, he said, "We haven't talked about this but I think the time has come." He took Sara's hand in his. "We—I have six weeks until the end of the term. We know we will return to Vegas until—while we are waiting for a research grant to come through."

He sighed, gathering thoughts into words before continuing, "Ecklie is looking for help—you could do it, you know—for a while. You—you could talk to your physician—you know—about…" His hands came together in a familiar motion of anxious thought.

Leaning forward, Sara wrapped her hands around his. She said, "Once you got that message, I started thinking along the same way." A soft laugh. "I do want to stay—who wouldn't? But this feels right—I have the chance to redeem myself—in my eyes. If I go back, if only for a few months, I know I'll think better of myself. Ecklie will find someone before we return unless I—you suggest I'd be the perfect short-timer." She laughed, adding, "Ecklie has never been my best friend."

Grissom nodded. "Six weeks will pass quickly—not even six weeks. And—and you can set up those appointments we need—for—well—to have checkups done."

Sara smiled, nodding her head in agreement. They had not talked about babies or pregnancy since arriving in Paris but she'd seen her husband's glances—more than glances—at babies and small children. It had surprised her; he had rarely mentioned a desire for parenthood in the years they had been together. But she liked—loved—this recently discovered facet of life.

He said, "You're sure you want to go back? If you have any reservations…"

A slight smile lifted her lips. "It was a bad time for me—everything that happened—I—I just couldn't pull out." She paused, adding, "Not even with the help of the best person in my life."

Within a few hours, their future—at least for several months—had been decided.

As Sara packed and Grissom made flight arrangements for her and for Hank, they both felt the need for closure on this honeymooning aspect of their life. They spoke quietly with an unvoiced use of "we" and "us" in conversations as they walked their last time across bridges, around crowded museums, ending in Montmarte, not for entertainment, but to see once again the white domes of Sacre Coeur. On this visit, Sara ventured into the gift shop and purchased several small silver crosses to add to her expanding gift bag.

Explaining her purchases to Grissom, she said, "For my mother and her friends," and he picked up one more, saying, "Both of our mothers—you'll see her when you pick up the car."

On her last day in Paris, with two tightly packed bags at the door, Hank in a state of uncertainty, they had stayed awake nearly all night. They had talked more of the past than their future and had made love in the fierce and passionate ways of parting lovers.

Grissom thought of her as though she was waves in the sea, rising and falling, sliding through his hands. He dosed and woke to feel dampness on his chest, knew she was crying. His arm circled her as he brought her face to his.

"Only for a few weeks, dear."

His arms went around her, holding her tightly. He knew she was the only woman he'd ever love, the only woman he wanted.

Kissing the top of her head, feeling her dark hair tickle his nose, he whispered, "It's only a few weeks—I'll be back home."

 _A/N: We don't think Grissom and Sara were apart as much as it appeared during the time Sara returned to Vegas-so there are more happy chapters ahead. Now-your part-review! Comment! Let us know you are reading! Help keep GSR alive!_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading! We appreciate hearing from you!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 14**

Grissom glanced away from the crossword he was doing, a quick peek at what was around him; what he saw, what he felt, caused his eyes to linger. Softly, he chuckled.

"What?"

The word was muffled by the banana.

"We make a triangle," he said, pointing at the dog stretched between their feet. Sara's head was against his chest; her feet touched Hank's smooth brown back.

She laughed and closed her book. Her hand reached for his as she said, "We're happy you are home."

Tossing the newspaper toward the bedside table, he said, "Thomas Marks wants us to return to Costa Rica. What should I tell him?"

Sara rolled to her belly, finished swallowing the bite of banana, and said, "You want to go." It was a statement. Her hand stretched across his chest. "What if we went together—you could stay as long as you want but I'd return in two weeks."

Grissom nodded in Hank's direction. "What about Hank?"

The dog's ears twitched at his name.

"I think Nick would keep him for a couple of weeks—he has a back yard so it wouldn't be a big deal to walk him." Sara's eyebrow lifted. "And while your mom did a great job—well…"

Grissom's mouth twisted in a smile. "She loves her grand-dog."

They both laughed; the dog had gained ten pounds while in the care of Betty Grissom.

He tugged at Sara's hand; she moved so she lay beside him, their heads touching.

"You know my mom is still thinking about moving to Vegas. The college wants her to work in their foundation, working on raising money for scholarships—she'd love to do it."

Sara tucked her head against his neck. "I don't even want to think about it—but at some point, my mother is going to require more—more care." She sighed. "I'll cross that bridge when it gets here."

Taking her hand in his, Grissom brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers. "We need to talk about—about—you know—what happens next."

Another sigh, her head barely turning side-to-side, she said, "Maybe it's not going to happen." She made a sad sounding laugh. "Who would have thought we'd both have problems—after practicing such good birth control for years—and neither one of us has—has enough fecundity to make a pregnancy."

He hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead. "We haven't reached the end—we need to decide how far to go."

A third heavy sigh in as many minutes came from Sara. She said, "I checked. If I'm full time, we'll get more insurance coverage for fertility issues which would cover two in vitro procedures after we've exhausted other-other procedures."

Kissing her forehead again, Grissom whispered, "I'm sorry about all of this." Sara had been the one who'd taken fertility drugs for three months with no success.

Another faint shake of her head and Sara said, "We can't be sorry about any of this, Gil. If—if it's meant to happen, it will. We'll get to the right one." Turning her head, she kissed him and then laughed softly. "And your first—the dog-child—needs a pee walk before we sleep."

Grissom rose off the bed, waving for Sara to remain. A soft whistle and Hank jumped off the bed, his tail swishing. Grissom found his shoes, headed out the door, noticing the dog took a short detour to a basket. He reached for the chuck-it, a long-handled stick with a scoop that held a tennis ball. Hank was losing weight.

Walking out the front of the building, quiet and deserted in the middle of the night, he tossed the tennis ball several times before man and dog turned around the end of the condominiums. A long-paved driveway ran along the back of the building, leading to garages.

He sighed as he observed what was happening to the private park area. While he and Sara had been absent from Vegas, and from the proceedings of the condo association, the area had been sold and now, new construction—a mixed development of small commercial buildings and additional condos—were going up. A large billboard announced all the amenities that would be coming.

For a while, he tossed the ball and the boxer sailed after it, trotting back to Grissom with a proud strut. Hank could play this game for hours, a simple activity repeated over and over. Grissom looked up at lighted windows, knowing the warm glow was from their bedroom. While tossing the tennis ball several times, he thought about the place he called home.

He knew every inch of the condo, each piece of furniture, even the way towels were folded and stored. He knew what plants grew in each window, where books were placed on shelves. And, suddenly, he knew what he wanted—what they should do. And if he could convince Sara...

By the time he returned, he was developing a plan—an approach—because he was fairly sure of initial resistance.

Sara was where he'd left her; on her belly reading a book. After several minutes of noisy greetings, he returned to the bed and found the newspaper folded on the bedside table, the crossword puzzle completed.

Playfully, he rolled it up and tapped Sara's head, saying, "You left me nothing!"

"You know you didn't know those," Sara said with a laugh. Closing her book, she added, "You had not made any progress in ten minutes."

Grunting in agreement, he pulled the book out of her hand and said, "I came up with an idea while outside. I want you to listen before objecting."

Sara sat up, puzzled by his words, nodding her head.

Grissom retrieved the newspaper from the floor and flipped through pages until he found what he wanted. He spread one page between them.

"Let's buy a house."

Within minutes, any opposition he thought Sara might have disappeared when she said, "Hank would love his own yard."

Not only did she raise no objection to a house, Sara knew the neighborhood, even the kind of house, she would like to live in. For an hour, they searched realtor websites looking at available houses—and found nothing in the desired neighborhood. But it did get their minds away from the ever-present fertility issues and without planning or scheduling, they found themselves with arms wrapped around the other and after a long passion-filled kiss, he felt heat radiating from her body.

"You are hot to the touch—burning up," he whispered.

She said nothing, but smiled as she led him back to their bed. With a swiftness that took them by surprise, they were undressed and Grissom was deeply kissing her, sliding his tongue along her teeth and she did the same, exciting him with her fervor and unabashed desire.

He was aroused, feeling as if he would explode if he did not have her immediately. They were clinging to each other, clothes in the way of exploration until he managed to yank her shirt over her head. Several moments passed as Sara struggled with his clothes but he paid little attention.

He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her breast, her nipples, and when he buried his face between her perfectly rounded breasts, it was several seconds before he realized she was trying to remove his shirt. He did not miss a kiss as the shirt cleared his head.

When he whispered he wanted to kiss every inch of her beautiful body, she murmured, "I'd like that."

He had intentions, but when Sara responded to his touch, he could not stop himself. His erection was hot between their flesh; he needed to take her. Now.

Bracing hands on either side of her, he raised himself up, stared into her eyes as she whispered, "Yes! Now."

Pushing his hands under her back, then her butt, he lifted her closer to him, fitting her body to his and slid inside her. She was warm, wet, and welded to him, thrusting to meet him. She moved her legs, wrapping around his back so he could go deeper in her soft core.

Grissom thought his heart was going to burst as he went deeper into her, enveloped by the most intimate act between a man and a woman.

Sara's soft voice whispered his name, adding, "Don't stop."

When they climaxed, it was difficult to know when one began and the other finished. Sara's orgasm seemed to go on for long moments as her body pulled him inside her, constricting against him until he did explode. And with his, he felt the fire along his spine, deep within his belly, until all sensible consciousness was lost for a while.

The next day, he and Sara drove from street to street in the neighborhood she had mentioned, a well-established, well-planned development from the sixties. He agreed with her choice—a neighborhood with actual front and back yards. Even side yards, Sara added. She knew the style.

"These are mid-century moderns. That one has a post and beam construction." When Grissom glanced at her, she laughed. "I've always seen these houses as perfection in the way to build a house—lots of light, open spaces."

When his mouth twitched into a smile, she added, "Don't laugh!" She pointed to one as they passed. "See how the entrance is sheltered—private. And a lot of them have courtyards and patios that are great spaces—connecting rooms with outside space."

"You've read up on these—why didn't you say you wanted a house?"

She laughed. Her eyes widened as she said, "I yearn for knowledge about a lot of things—and I read _Dwell_ magazine. That's how I found this neighborhood—one of the houses was featured in it—so—so I drove around one day."

Reaching for her hand, he said, "Well, I haven't seen one real estate sign in a yard so we may have to wait if you really want one of these houses."

"We can wait. Get the finance part worked out."

Grissom's mouth angled into a grin. "Sure. I've got a plan—my mother has always loved the condo. If she's set on moving to Vegas—she says she would live on campus in their housing—but my mother isn't going to like that. We can offer her the condo—and she can pay the association fees."

He turned his face to Sara with that well-satisfied, 'thought this out' grin on his face.

"Sounds like you've been thinking about this!"

"No, just last night when I went out with Hank. Dog needs a place to play." When Sara was silent, he added, "It will work out. Get my mother into the plan and she'll give us time to find the place we want."

Sara returned a smug smile, saying, "We've got the trust money." Then a peel of laughter filled the car. "I sound like such a snob! 'Trust money' is a term I never thought I'd actually use in referring to my life."

"You don't have to use it for a house," he paused for a minute. "We could use it for—for—you know…"

Sara knew, nodding as his words faded. She said, "Ecklie has already offered a full-time position and I've put off making a decision about it. If we use insurance for fertility issues, then we can use the trust fund," she giggled again. "For travel and—and the future."

Grissom drove along shaded streets feeling confident and content. The sky was bluer, the sky brighter. Sara's voice was light, laughter filled, yet composed. Everything was amusing this morning; smiles coming quickly for both. Her smile was stunningly radiant.

His chest lifted—love was like that, he thought as he reached for her hand.

 _A/N: Again, thank you for reading! And we would love to read your comments! Takes 8 seconds!_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Sorry for the delay-real life keeps happening!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 15**

He was late. And hot. And dusty. More than a little sweaty.

Traffic moved at a snail's pace around the city's market; when an opening appeared between a local bus and a battered red Volkswagen, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal angling to get the spot before it closed.

The truck just stalled and grinded its gears getting him exactly twelve inches before the space closed. His fingers tapped against the wheel as his foot worked the clutch. Traffic inched forward.

Ten minutes later, he bumped against the curb, opened the door, and tossed the keys to the attendant. The young man laughed as he caught the keys and said something.

Grissom quickly translated his words, waved, and hurried into the building.

Most days he would enjoy the moment of cooler air as he entered the historic building after leaving the sun baked street. He'd greet the men and women at the front desk, respond to the offer of a cool drink, and check his email at the hotel's business center. But today, he hurried by with a wave, noticing the grins on the faces of the men and the watchful eyes of the women.

He did not even respond; Sara had arrived.

Passing into the building's courtyard, he walked across well-tended grass and took the stairs two-at-a-time. The former convent-turned-hotel was built around several courtyards; his room overlooked a16th century stone water well where nuns had laundered clothes. Water continued to flow into hand-carved troughs long after the nuns disappeared. It was also the most private area in the place.

He rushed past several open arches to the corner door, a heavy, old-world crafted solid wood entrance that's only indication of the current century was a small card-reader attached to the wall. He already had the keycard in his hand…

~Sara had arrived several hours earlier, gotten a taxi at the airport, and arrived at the hotel to find she was expected and promptly shown to Grissom's room.

Located at the far end of an open hallway, overlooking a quiet courtyard, it was scrupulously clean and cool. A king sized bed was covered in white, a sitting alcove opened to a private balcony.

Sara's first thought was the original use of the room must have been for one of the high-ranking nuns but then decided it would have been a bedroom for a dozen novices after she read the historical card posted on the wall.

Glancing at her watch, she knew it would be hours before her husband arrived, so she unpacked and took a shower in a gleaming blue-tiled bathroom. As the water sluiced over her, she luxuriated for a moment or two with thoughts of Gil Grissom. He was here for five weeks, studying the mighty cochineal, the bug used for red dye, in one of its natural habitats.

In six months, he would go to Peru with the same research group. He was as excited as a small boy on Christmas day when the invitation had been extended; she dared not express disappointment that the call had not included her. But she wasn't really interested in insects of any kind. Quickly dismissing those thoughts, she rinsed and stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. She carefully dried off, padding the large bruise on her hip—the bruise a remnant of a wrongly placed recent injection. A by-product for one of the reasons she'd flown in for a short-three-day visit.

She dressed in a thin white shirt and jeans and took a better look at the room. The furniture was old, showing an aged patina that mellowed the white walls and bed coverings. A window silhouetted a church bell tower. Pushing open the double windows, she placed her hand on the old stone ledge, surprised to find the surface was cool to her palms, and then she remembered thermal mass.

Standing at the window, she found the landmarks she'd heard about from Grissom as he had described the city. The cultural museum was next to the church she could see. Botanical gardens were behind the museum. Several blocks away the city center and a massive marketplace sprawled along several streets.

She had three days to explore before flying home; turning around, she put away her suitcase and pulled a book from her backpack. Opening a bottle of water, she settled into one of the chairs near the balcony…

The door whispered an airy breeze as it opened and by the time Grissom entered the room, Sara was standing with her back to the sunlight. He was smiling, arms outstretched, pulling her into his arms.

"So sorry, honey," he said as he inhaled her sweet smelling hair. "Traffic…"

"It's all right," she whispered right before kissing him on his moving lips.

And then he was kissing her, pressing their bodies together, and, very quickly, becoming aroused by holding her, by the sensation of her touch, her smell.

Pulling away, he smiled. "I've missed you every minute."

Sara giggled softly, leaning her forehead against his as her long fingers threaded his hair. "Don't lie. I know you don't think about me when you're elbow deep in bugs."

Chuckling, he knew he'd been caught in a small lie. "I've missed having you next to me. I've missed your body and your voice." Like a love-sick teenager, he wiggled his pelvis against hers.

It's beautiful here." She kissed him again, quickly, sweetly.

"And I'm dirty and sweaty and getting you that way." He pushed away, holding her at arm's length, adding, "Quick shower and I'm back—right here." He grinned, "Well, maybe not right here." His head tilted toward the bed. "Is it the right time?"

Sara kissed him a third time. "Perfect timing according to the experts." Her eyes widened; she said, "I'm primed and ready—shot full of hormones."

Keeping his word, Grissom was out of the shower in less than ten minutes, returning to the bedroom, a towel around his waist, as Sara was closing the billowy white curtains.

Taking her hand, he led her to the bed where she had folded bed coverings back and rearranged pillows.

"Supposed to be the quietest room." His hands were all over her body, lifting her shirt and pulling it over her head. They fell onto the bed; hands touched, stroked, and explored.

Grissom quickly lost the towel and reached for the snap on Sara's jeans.

"I have a bruise," she said quietly.

His hands slowed. "Work related?"

She shook her head. "I hit a blood vessel with an injection." She slipped her pants down to reveal a blue-black area the size of his palm on her backside.

Gently, Grissom touched the bruise. "This doesn't look good."

"Its fine," Sara assured him. "The nurse looked at it and decided to give me the rest of them."

"I should have been there."

Sara shook her head. "It happens. I'm here. We have three days. If this works, I should go home with a little bean."

His fingertips lightly traced the bruised area. "A bean?" He chuckled, saying, "Not sure that's a good analogy with all the beans we eat." His fingers moved to the lacy pink edge of her panties. "These are new."

Laughing quietly as his hands continued moving, Sara said, "Not new but saved for a special occasion. You bought them in Paris."

He rolled over, keeping a protective hand on her bruise, snuggling his very hard penis against her. His erection was obvious, hot against her skin. "I'm ready, dear. And believe me, all I've thought about for two weeks."

She kissed him with an intense passion that nearly took his breath. When she released him, she said, "We'll talk later. I've missed you more than I have words to explain." She kissed him again. "Love me."

He did. Slowly, tenderly, his lips moved over her body, from her left ear lobe to the inside of her left thigh, crossing to her right thigh, moving upward to nuzzle the soft pink folds at the junction of her long smooth legs. At some point, the pink silk panties were removed and lost in a fold of soft cotton sheets at the foot of the bed.

A slight movement from Sara's knee moved him upwards, kissing her belly as he slipped hands underneath her butt. He could feel her hands in his hair, soothing, stroking, caressing; her body moved in ways that stimulated him even more.

She wanted, needed him; he knew he could give and never leave her wanting. There was more than heat to his lips; the greed in his hands was a search for more than satisfaction. She rose to him, found his face with her hands, with her lips. He moved over her, lighting fires of arousal.

Their emotions and passions heightened until neither could delay; she arched to receive him. He lifted her, fitting her body to his. He slid inside her easily as she welcomed him with her warm, erotic kisses. Her legs went around him as he sank into her core. Her body was hot and damp with pleasure, her system screaming for release as a desperate moan met his ears.

He gave her all she wanted. Fighting for breath, his forehead dropped to hers as he waited for his head to clear so he would know every second, every movement.

She came on a gallop, arching her back, pulling him deeply within her body, held him as bodies merged. As minds blurred. He whispered her name over and over as he emptied. All other thoughts were forgotten as passion exploded, driven by desire and longing.

Afterwards, exhausted, Sara lay quietly in his arms.

The late afternoon sunshine cast a golden glow around the fluttering curtains. There was a faint distant sound of laughter but otherwise the room was quiet.

"I'm not sure I can move," Grissom said.

"Room service?"

He chuckled, saying, "They do have a good restaurant. Do you need to rest? Or—or anything else?"

She snuggled her head against his chin. "I think I could use a nap—just for a while." Her leg crossed over his.

And with that small move, he could feel her, damp and hot against his thigh. She wanted—needed to sleep, and he wanted her. Less than fifteen minutes after he had blown an orgasm the size of—of a fast baseball, he felt a flame of heat flash up his spine and set fire to desire—lust. He wanted to feel her, smell her; have the taste of her fill his senses.

His hand moved between her legs, gently his fingers rubbed against the dampness, circled the swollen center of passion. Watching her face, her eyes were closed and the corners of her mouth inched up in a smile. His fingertips moved again.

A dark eye opened. "What's going on?" A husky whisper.

He kissed her before saying, "I'm horny."

She shifted, opening herself up to him.

His lips touched her breast, gently licking around her nipple before taking it in his mouth. His hand cupped her.

Then a thought struck him. He pulled away. Sara opened her eyes.

"Is this okay? I mean—I can stop—wait."

A soft giggle came from Sara. She rolled to her back and said, "If you don't continue, I might have to do something dangerous!"

"What about your nap?"

She pulled her knee up, reached for his hand, and placed it between her legs. "Continue," she said with a smile, stretching her arms over her head.

Then his teeth nibbled along her inner thigh. She shuddered. His mouth worked up and down her body, over her, around her while his fingers did the same with the soft, very wet, and very warm core between her legs. When he slid down the bed and brought his mouth to this intimate, sensitive area, she responded with a sudden spasm, grasped his shoulders, gasping as she did.

He had not expected her quick reaction; nor did he expect his. He was astride her, lying on top of her. He was hard, not as hard as earlier, but enough to slide into her. Her hands grabbed his butt, pushing them together. Her eyes were dark except for the tiny flames sparkling around her pupils; her mouth opened in a surprised circle as they found a rhythm and moved together.

His erection grew harder inside of her. "Sara," he gasped, "Sara." She was lush, he thought; then it hit him—a difference in how she felt was due to the hormones.

He brought his mouth to hers, and holding her tightly, she climaxed. It was a shared ecstasy, not an intense orgasm for him, but a gentle assurance of his capacity to make love.

For the next two days, Grissom was her guide as they explored museums, churches, art galleries, and markets. They drank hot chocolate made with a seriousness usually afforded to wine and tasted ice cream made from cactus, ate warm pastries and sweet tamales, and wandered through the city's market—Sara was amazed at the brightly woven fabrics and imaginary painted figures.

A stall selling delicate sewn sweaters and caps caused Grissom to stop. He lifted one small white cap in his hand. Sara quickly shook her head.

"It would be bad luck."

"No," he said, shaking his head and turning the infant sized hat with his fingers. "Its good luck—good planning. And look what's on it."

Small stitches in white thread had outlined a pattern of tiny butterflies around the brim.

Sara whispered, "But what if—if I'm not…if we don't."

He smiled. "We will. If not now, next time." He pulled out several bills and passed them to the woman behind the table.

The woman, experienced in marketing her merchandise, picked up an infant's sweater and held it out. A blanket was next. Sara shook her head; Grissom took both items.

More money exchanged hands; Grissom talked to the woman as she wrapped each piece in tissue paper and placed them in a bag. His pleased grin caused Sara to smile. If he was happy, she would be happy.

As they passed stalls of brightly colored dresses, woven rugs, pottery, and carved wooden furniture, Grissom was animated about everything causing Sara to laugh about his enthusiasm. Leisurely, they wandered, lingering, exploring, and discovering tree-shaded streets and plazas finding everyone hospitable to visitors.

Sara insisted on visiting the cochineal research facility so on the third day, she climbed into the beat-up truck with its grinding gears with her husband. And she found an amazing place, slightly ramshackled, but fascinating with its rows of cactus covered with small scale insects.

The lead researcher explained the growth cycle, the specific cactus for differing insects, and, inside a small, modern lab, she learned the goal of their research.

"Food dye—not just lipstick and—and that stuff women fluff on their faces," Grissom explained. "Few people are allergic, it holds up well."

"A squashed bug makes things red?"

He laughed. "It really isn't a smashed bug—more like honey from bees—extracted from the mashed insect." Holding up a piece of cactus covered with scale insects, he added, "The process is thousands of years old—carmine has been a huge export for this area since the Spanish arrived."

By mid-afternoon, they were back in the truck and heading to the city for her flight back to Vegas.

Grissom reached for Sara's hand. "Thanks for coming, dear." When she squeezed his hand, he added, "and for all the other—stuff."

She said nothing, but twined her fingers with his where it stayed until he had to use the gear stick on the truck's steering column to manually shift. As the wind rushed in the truck windows, he thought about their infertility issues—never referred to as 'infertility', not even by the physician, but after months of—of nothing, of eliminating one potential reason after another, he knew—it wasn't Sara.

Glancing at her, he realized she was radiant—more than usual. With one hand, she held her hair as she watched the passing landscape.

"Sara." He whispered her name least he break the spell that seemed to be surrounding her. Of course, she heard her name and turned to face him, a smile formed on her face.

Pointing to the west, he said, "There's a big archeology site up there."

"Have you been?"

"No, not yet."

"You should go," she insisted. "It would be interesting."

He smiled. "I'll go. Some of the archeologists are at the hotel."

Later, as Sara packed for her return to Vegas, she discovered a small tissue-paper wrapped package on the bedside table.

"What's this?" She asked.

His puzzled stare made it obvious that he did not know. She picked it up, her fingers pressing on something soft. Shrugging her shoulders, she pulled the paper away and immediately began to laugh.

"My panties," she chortled. "I thought they were long gone!" She held the pink fabric between her hands. "And they are clean!"

Grissom moved toward her, taking them from her hands. "We need to look after these." He folded his hand around the fabric and held it to his chest. "I'm keeping these until I return—remind me of whom I have at home."

Seeing him holding her underwear against his heart caused Sara to laugh so hard tears formed in her eyes. When she hiccupped, he wrapped his arms around her, saying, "I love you, Sara."

Two weeks later, he returned to Vegas. The small cap, sweater, and blanket he had purchased in the market were placed in a drawer, away from view for a while longer.

A/N _: Thank you in advance for staying with us! We appreciate hearing from you...more soon!_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Remember-it only takes a few seconds to write a comment or review!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 16**

As an investigator, Gil Grissom knew there were times he had to use unorthodox means to solve a crime. He was no longer involved in crime scenes, but he could use his experience in other situations.

His wife wanted a house in a certain neighborhood and looking for realtor signs in yards had not resulted in success. The long, sleek designs of mid-century modern architecture had grown in popularity, the neighborhood, with its mature trees and ample lots, was a prized gem in Vegas, and the houses were sold before an official listing appeared.

That's why he and Hank were taking daily walks along the quiet streets looking for any activity that might indicate an upcoming vacancy. In three months, there had been two deaths of elderly owners; he walked by both houses every day.

As he stopped in front of one of the houses, his thoughts went to Sara and he smiled. She was sleeping after a long shift and he had—so far—managed to keep his search methods a secret. Sighing, he realized their search for a house and their efforts at—his breath caught with his thought—Sara was not pregnant and the fertility clinic physician had recommended another, more complex, procedure.

Standing on the sidewalk, he grimaced at the memories. Guilt rose to the surface as he wiped his face—his own condition caused his anguish. He had waited too late—assuming for years than he—he was fine—it was his infertility issues that caused Sara to endure procedure after procedure without success.

He, the man who could dig into a maggot covered body without hesitation, could barely sit in the room while his wife was balanced in a lithotomy position for what seemed to be unending procedures.

Wiping a hand across his face, he regretted his initial suggestion to have a family; he'd been the one to press forward and then he'd learned his body failed on several vital levels. Low sperm count, poor motility—he had mentally kicked himself for months for not having a semen analysis earlier—before their excitement flourished, before months of—of disappointment. Now, it was Sara who had to undergo injections, ultrasounds, blood testing, and those dreaded—by him—examinations.

They had gone through post-coital testing which he found excruciatingly embarrassing; Sara had laughed all the way to the clinic. The results were—not good. The physician cautiously recommended an intrauterine procedure; one step at a time, she suggested, adding "Stay positive. Most couples have a baby."

So they had settled into a routine; not mechanical sex, but careful planning governed by appointments, injections, and 'collection'. They had developed a strange and unexpected intimacy and Sara was the one who, somehow, managed to find an optimistic outlook with all of it. Most of the time; her sadness occurred for a few days following negative results but never hopeless, always rebounding and ready for another cycle.

His hand wiped across his face again as he pushed his thoughts away; his lapse into self-pity was rare. Returning his eyes to study the empty house, he knew Sara liked this one; he could imagine her innate talent for pleasing design at work.

A house to turn into their own would be a diversion, a purpose as they planned for their future.

Hank pulled at his leash in an effort to get his master moving just as a woman stepped outside of the house. Surprised, Grissom nodded a greeting; the woman beckoned for him to approach.

Before he reached her driveway, she was speaking. "I've seen you around—always stopping to look at the Barfield house. You should buy it." She was well-dressed; a tennis player, Grissom thought.

He said, "I—we'd like to buy it, but it hasn't come on the market. Do you know the owners?"

"Have you checked county records? The Barfields only had one son—Donald—must be fifty years old now."

Grissom nodded. He had checked property records. "A family trust is listed as the owner."

The woman held out her hand, saying, "I'm Lisa Butler—the neighbor. Donald Barfield is in a private care facility—he was born with Down syndrome—never aged beyond childhood. I'm sure there is a guardian—probably a lawyer at his dad's old firm."

Grissom introduced himself. Eyebrows lifted in interest; clearly the woman knew—or had known—her neighbor. "I'm interested," he said. "Do you know who I could contact?"

Lisa Butler smiled, holding up one finger. "You look like you'd make a good neighbor—and I'm a sucker for a dog. I've just watered the plants—would you like to see it?"

"I wouldn't want to trespass."

She snorted a laugh. "I mow the grass, blow off the driveway, do a weekly walk-thru. Do you think anyone has been around since Mae Barfield died? The house will sit empty until some lawyer gets around to doing something. We might help him-her along, Mr. Grissom."

A few minutes later, Grissom stepped into a house that had not changed since the 1960s. A bright foyer, a perfect place for plants, opened into a large living room with a high ceiling; furniture was classic. Instinct told him the chairs, the tables, and the sofa, all with sleek wooden lines, had been originally purchased when the house was new.

"Mae kept it clean and nice—good stuff in here," Lisa said. "After she passed—she had a stroke and never came home—a neighbor and I cleaned the place and locked the doors. Her things are still in the closets, dishes in the cabinets."

Grissom, curious to see the rest of the house, motioned for Hank to stay, and asked, "Can I walk around?"

"Sure—I'll take your dog outside—what's his name?"

Seconds later, Hank had a new friend and Grissom was checking out bedrooms, closets, and bathrooms with the care he had once given crime scenes. The house was a museum to a long life; mementos, photographs, books, and furniture all appeared to be treasured items. A wall along the hallway was filled with the frozen face of a little boy growing into an adult with the expressions of a child.

He continued into the second bedroom, darkened by closed draperies that matched patterned bed coverings; rugs were faded but the wood floors showed little wear. The third bedroom stretched the width of the house, larger than the one in their condo, two closets, and a bathroom that brought back memories of his childhood. Backtracking he walked through the small kitchen, sandwiched between a dining area and a spacious den with a wall of windows. He pulled a cord and opened blinds that revealed a patio, overgrown with vines, partly covered by a roof, and a deep yard.

Hank was retrieving a stick. Grissom smiled and closed the blinds, even more certain that this was the place for Sara—for both of them. And a project that would fill their time.

In the days that followed, Grissom and Sara decided they had found the house they wanted to be their home. An elderly lawyer, poised and secure after years of experience, served as guardian for Donald Barfield, and decided it was time to sell the house.

Grissom was almost certain the attorney's decision came from an immediate fondness for Sara.

"It is a well-built house," he had said. "The Barfield's were good people—they loved the house. Bought it new—he and I were already working together—and we had some great parties there." The old lawyer, surprising Sara and Grissom, offered most of the furnishings. "Donald has no use for anything there."

As a result of that proposal, Sara and Grissom offered to buy the house as it was.

"You sure you don't mind dealing with all the stuff?" He asked on the day of closing. "Some of the furniture is good but it's old fashioned for a lot of people."

Sara already had plans for some of the furniture—a beautiful wooden audio cabinet, the dining table and chairs, several other pieces that fit with the design of the house.

With an agreement and purchase price that suited both parties, the house and its contents was theirs.

A few weeks later, Grissom and Jim Brass watched from the once overgrown patio as Sara walked around the back yard. Hank followed, sniffing around old flower beds, and doing what dog's do best.

Looking pleased with their progress, Grissom lifted his glass toward Sara, saying "She's worked wonders inside—I'm in charge of the yard." Walls had been painted, floors buffed to a soft glow, and covered with new rugs. Old photographs were gone, clothes had been donated, furniture cleaned and polished. The cabinets were filled with their own dishes; even a few photographs of them were sitting on shelves.

Brass followed Grissom's gaze. "What happens next with you two? Nice yard, couple of extra bedrooms," he chuckled. "If I thought about it, I'd say you two might be planning…" he folded his arms together and moved back and forth. "Maybe a little addition in the future?"

Knowing Sara's intense desire for privacy—as well as his own—Grissom was silent for a long moment before saying, "We have a lot to do with this place—then I'll be away for a while doing some research. And then—my mother plans to move here soon."

Just as Brass opened his mouth to voice another inquiring question, the door bell chimed, the front door was pushed open and the two men heard the excited voices of their friends.

Catherine Willows called, "We brought food!"

Grissom shrugged his shoulders and pulled a smirk before saying, "Party is here. Can I refill your glass?"

Hours later, Gil Grissom realized he had avoided the question Jim Brass had asked; by doing so, he'd probably revealed more than he should have. No going back now, he thought.

Then he looked over, found Sara talking to Greg and Nick. She met his eyes. There was a glass in her hand; she was laughing. She brushed her hand over her cheek, then grinned and blew him a kiss.

 _A/N: Thank you! We looking forward to hearing from you! More to come..._


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who continues to read!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 17**

Gil Grissom's nose twitched before he was awake; the aroma of fresh fruit tapped his sense of smell, entered his brain, and fired off a combination of nerves that produced a pleasured, remembered scent. The dreamy, warm cocoon of sleep tempted him to keep his head tucked into the comfortable pillow, but then he woke enough to remember what day it was.

His birthday. August 17. Usually one of the hottest days of summer.

And fruit—he was certain he smelled cherries—was in his bed.

Rotating his head in a quarter turn, he managed to lift one eyelid. Across the bed, arms length away, was Sara, reading a book, with a bowl sitting next to her.

"I smell cherries."

Slowly, she picked one out of the bowl, held it by the stem for a moment as she appeared to examine it closely, and then she dropped it in her mouth. A grin lifted the corners of her lips as her tongue moved against her cheek several times before she revealed the stem, neatly tied in a knot, between her teeth. Looking at him with beautiful, affectionate brown eyes and a smile on her face, he could think of no better way to begin his birthday.

Then she leaned over his face, pushed the cherry between her lips, and pressed it to his. She giggled as she held it tightly, sucking on it as he tried to take it with his mouth. More giggles from both as the cherry finally landed in his mouth.

"Happy birthday, dear," Sara whispered as his teeth burst the fruit and sent a wave of aroma up his nose along with a sensation of sweetness and tartness flooding into his mouth.

As he chewed, she picked up another cherry, held the stem between her teeth, and dangled it over his mouth. When he pushed the pit out on his tongue, she gently lifted it off and placed the next one in his mouth.

"I wish I could tie a cherry stem in a knot," he said with a chuckle.

"It's a gift—a natural born talent." Sara said as she scooted next to him, the bowl now on her chest.

She plopped a cherry in her mouth and chewed.

Grissom pushed himself up and plumped his pillow behind his head. He said, "How do you feel?"

"Fine."

She had given the same reply for ten days in a row. He let it go; they both knew but would wait for results on the fourteenth day.

Another cherry went into her mouth.

"Are you going to share?" He asked.

Grinning, Sara handed him two cherries and took the pit he'd just taken from his mouth. She dropped it into a small receptacle made into the side of the larger bowl.

He had brought her the bowl from Michigan where he'd gone to see how research in honey bee colonies was conducted. He had found the bowl in an airport gift shop. A bowl for cherries with a little pocket to hold the pits; he had never brought her a gift she used as much as this bowl.

For a few minutes, they munched on cherries.

Then, Sara said, very quietly, barely suppressing a giggle, "Who burst your cherry?"

"What?" So startled by her question, he almost choked on a cherry.

"You know—who was your first?"

Grissom rolled to his side. "Do you mean who was the first person I had sex with?"

Sara giggled, nodding, "yeah."

Reaching for another cherry, he said, "I can't believe you are asking me!"

"Well, you already know when I had sex the first time—sort of."

His eyebrows rose.

"I told you—before I went to college."

Grissom chuckled. "You did tell me about him…"

"Fifteen seconds from start to finish."

He grimaced.

"Tell me about your first—you've always avoided the story."

He squirmed a bit, adjusting his body so he could put an arm around his wife and pulled her close. He said, "It was a long time ago—I barely remember it."

She gave him a healthy poke with her elbow. "Come on. I know you remember! And I bet it's a good one!"

He made a grimace before contorting his face in an indulgent smile. He asked, "Why do you want to know this?"

Picking up another cherry, Sara laughed before saying, "Because I yearn for knowledge—in this case, I want to know who got you in bed for your first time!" She passed the cherry to him. "Come on—on your birthday! Tell!"

"I think I'd rather—cut my toenails on my birthday than tell you the story."

His comment caused her to laugh and roll to face him. "I know it's a good story! Now tell!"

She placed the bowl between them and he noticed it was almost empty.

"I'll get more cherries," he said.

Quickly, Sara's leg went over his. "Nope," she said. "You have to tell the story first." She tightened her leg grip. "And then I'll fix pancakes." She smirked, adding, "as a reward for telling—and your birthday."

"I was what you would call a 'late bloomer'."

She smiled. "I'm listening."

For several seconds, he thought about how he could postpone relating his first sexual experience. Then the events of the preceding months slammed into his emotional brain; he would tell her.

"It happened when I was in college," he said, watching Sara as she turned her face to his. "Senior year."

Sara's eyebrow lifted slightly.

"It—times were different back then. Weren't that many women in biology—and I was—I was a ghost." His mouth twitched at the corner before he said, "I had a few girlfriends and most wanted much more than I was ready—to give—so—so those didn't last long."

When he stopped his narration, she gave him a look of encouragement but didn't say anything.

"My senior year, I was a lab assistant—and my supervisor was—ah—a pretty woman—was…"

"Older?"

He nodded. "Older. During the year, we got to know each other—I mean, we worked together every day. She—she had a couple of kids—I thought she was—ah—around forty—divorced. Working on a master's degree. And then, one day, near the end of the semester, she asked if I'd like to eat lunch with her."

Sara's head settled against his shoulder.

He continued, "We had eaten lunch nearly every day—so what made this different, I thought. Then she said she'd cooked the night before and had leftovers—at her apartment. I was pretty clueless so we drove to her apartment—kids were in school or somewhere because it was just the two of us."

His arm was around Sara; his hand resting right below her breast. He asked, "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Yes!" After she answered, she turned her face and kissed his chin. "Much more interesting than my first time."

"Well, it didn't take long for her to heat up the roast—and—and open a bottle of wine. After putting two plates on the table, she disappeared for a few minutes, and when she returned—she had—had—ah—changed her clothes." He chuckled. "And then the light came on and I realized what was going on. She had on this short black gown and nothing else. Her hair was down on her shoulders—and by the time she handed me a glass of wine, I had decided she wasn't nearly as old as I thought she was."

Sara made a low groan, adding, "You were seduced by an older woman! Was she pretty?"

"Oh, she was pretty—once she got out of that lab coat and her hair was down—she was beautiful! We never ate the roast, but I did make it to my three o'clock lab."

Laughing at his last sentence, Sara asked, "Did this go on—I mean did you date?"

"No," he laughed, shaking his head. "She came to the lab the next day, thanked me for being such a gentlemen, and nothing else was ever said! A few weeks later, I went to Chicago. The day I left, she gave me a dissecting kit—nice one."

Another cherry appeared over his mouth as Sara asked, "Do you know what happened to her?"

"Years later, I saw her name on a research paper—she was in Oklahoma."

A soft giggle. "I have a question."

"Okay."

"Was she prepared? I mean—you know—wearing the gown…"

Grissom chuckled. "She was prepared. Clean sheets on the bed. Condoms sealed in a new package at the bedside. Even had toiletries in her shower that were new. And she had country music playing."

"You are still a gentleman—just so you know."

"Well, now that I think about it—it was an odd situation and I'd never mentioned my—my lack of experience to anyone." He chuckled. "In a few hours, I learned a lot about anatomy."

"And you never heard from her again?"

"Nope. She knew where I was going—I think she had another semester to go before she graduated."

Sara lifted her head to look at him. "What's her name? I'm going to look her up."

"Why!"

Her lips pressed together before she smiled. "I want to see what she looks like—the older woman who finally got you in bed." Suppressing another giggle, she added, "She must have been pretty and smart."

Groaning quietly, Grissom shifted, saying, "Wait here." He got out of bed, limping slightly as he adjusted his boxers and left the room.

A few minutes later, he returned, holding a dark-colored book in his hands, flipping pages as he got back in bed. He said, "I know she's in here."

After turning pages, back and forth, he stopped at a page, placed a finger on one of the pictures and said, "That's her. Diane Howell. God, I haven't thought of her name in years."

Sara leaned to look closely at the page. A line of young men were standing behind a table; a woman in a white lab coat, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, was in the foreground. The camera had taken a posed, clear photograph of the group standing in a lab.

Smiling, Sara pointed to one of the men. "Ahh—I'd know you anywhere! Look at your hair!"

"We were science nerds—all of us."

Sara giggled. "I know why she picked you—cutest one of the group!" She moved her finger to the woman. "So this is the woman who—who—popped your 'man cherry'." She giggled and turned to kiss him. "And she is pretty."

Grissom returned the kiss and then said, "You are beautiful." He hugged her, kissing her hair before saying, "Come on—let's make pancakes. Celebrate my birthday." He closed the yearbook.

Sara sat on the edge of the bed, her long legs appearing pale against the sheets. "Would you like to go out to Red Rocks today? We could take Hank; walk one of the trails…" Her words stopped with a quiet sigh.

Delicately, he touched her chin and lifted her face. When her eyes met his, tears moistened her lashes. Quickly wiping her eyes, she murmured, "It's the hormones."

"I know it is, honey." His hand moved to her cheek, threading fingers in her hair as he pulled her close. "A day at Red Rocks will be the perfect birthday."

"I've failed again—I know I have."

"Shh," he whispered. "You haven't failed—we have not failed. We have six embryos waiting for next time. And we know the statistics." He kissed her forehead, keeping his mouth against her skin as he said, "One day, we'll remember these quiet mornings and laugh. We'll have a couple of kids running around, waking us up at the crack of dawn."

Quietly, Sara sniffed. "One, Gil, if we have one."

"A girl," he whispered.

He felt her tremble. She said, "A boy—like you. I'd like a boy."

"Then we'll have a boy and a girl—one for you and one for me."

Pulling away from him, Sara said, "Sorry—I didn't mean to get so—so emotional."

"You are fine," he said with a smile. "Let's go make some pancakes."

A halcyon day spent in an area that did not see changes in a decade much less a few months. They followed a twisting path that led through fantastic rock formations into a wide bowl-like sandy floor. The blue sky high above, a splash of green marked a place with water. A hawk circled above the rock walls pocked by a fretwork of stone.

For the first time in days, Sara noticed the sparkle in Grissom's eyes as he examined tracks of tiny insects, investigated heaps of rocks where the creatures might rest, and probed little hollows for their nests.

When the sun made long glowing fingers across the sky, they turned back with the dog trotting ahead.

As they walked, holding hands, they talked about things that were inconsequential until they reached the car. Sara turned to her husband, her face suddenly solemn.

"You should take the offer—go back to Peru."

Holding the car's door open for Hank to jump in, he slowly closed the door and opened the front door for her. "We've talked about this, Sara."

"I know we have. It will be two months before we try again with the frozen ones. You should go—it's a great opportunity."

As he shook his head, she added, "It's for six weeks—and you know you'd have a great time." She grinned, adding, "Consider it your birthday present!"

He tried several tactics to make a case for staying in Vegas, but she was adamant. A few days later, the pregnancy test was negative; results they expected.

A week later, Grissom leaned on the railing of a small river ship heading up the Amazon River, almost hypnotized by the rhythm of the river. A light spray of water hit his face.

He was on his way to a research station in the Pacaya-Samiria Reserve, the largest protected area in Peru.

Grissom's phone rang, surprised it was able to connect to a distant tower. He answered it.

"Gil! How's the cruise?" Sara's voice, as clear as if she were standing next to him.

"The conga line just finished," he answered, keeping his voice light.

They talked for a few minutes; she had worked a long shift and he heard fatigue in her voice. As they spoke, he turned until he was facing north. Facing the home he'd left behind.

 _A/N: We'd love to hear from you! Real life crowding in-more when we can!_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Thank you for staying with our story! Read, enjoy, review...next chapter soon!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 18**

Grissom's mother, Betty, had an energy that seemed to charge the air around her; the type of person other people noticed. Always immaculately dressed, her silver-gray hair rarely out of place, the older woman waited at the curb as he pulled in.

Sara was out of the car before it stopped rolling, greeting his mother with sign language before getting a brief hug. Then the two women stood by the car and signed for five minutes before his mother got in the rear seat. Once buckled in, Betty signed 'hello' to him and gave him an affectionate pat on his shoulder, signing to him.

Sara got in the front, saying, "I tried to get her to take the front seat."

Translating what his mother had signed to him, Grissom said, "She's happy I'm finally home."

"So am I," Sara responded with a grin. She turned and signed to her mother-in-law who made an agreeable response. Fingers and hands moved as the two women conversed in sign language.

Grissom was grateful his mother had found a community of friends at Gilbert College. She had worked for several years to raise funds for the small college and at one event in Los Angeles had brought in donations that exceeded a million dollars. After that, it was only a matter of time until she was offered a permanent position and made the move to Vegas.

And now, since his return from Peru, he had noticed a significant 'thaw' in the relationship between his wife and his mother. He knew it had started with the investigation of a death on the college campus—and Sara's introduction to Julia Holden—which he'd heard from Sara. The two women had found mutual interests in plants and books—and in him, deciding the best way for Sara to learn sign language was in the stories his mother shared about his childhood.

From his mother, he'd gotten enough questions to know that Sara had mentioned "family" which his mother had taken to mean she'd have a grandchild soon.

He had chosen to ignore several of her questions on that topic.

Turning to face the window, he headed to a favorite restaurant for dinner. As he drove, he watched the continuously changing landscape of Las Vegas—more casinos, more people, more of everything—and thought as Sara and his mother resumed an almost silent conversation punctuated with an occasional laugh.

He knew his life—married to the woman he loved—was exceptional; together, they enjoyed each other. When apart, they talked frequently, making plans for his return, sharing what happened at work. Only one concern caused grief.

In two years, there had been one month—actually eight days—when their hopes had risen and been confirmed only for disappointment on the ninth day. Sara had comforted him; never a reproach, never blaming him.

Yet he was a husband who could not perform the most basic of male functions; he could not provide his wife with his child. Sara had been the one who endured injections, examinations, probing—the excitement of a family—a child, children now filled him with dread and guilt. Silently, he corrected his disordered thoughts; the dread and guilt came from the science. He had never imagined he could not be a father of his biological child.

Sara, who had shown such resilience and patience, was the one who assured him that they could try again, go through another round of IVF, of more injections and collections, of examinations, probing. His guilt continued even as she encouraged him to resume his research work; and then he felt guilty because work did ease his guilt.

In a brief moment, after the loss, Sara had suggested they could be parents in other ways. When he made no response, she'd not mentioned it again and they had scheduled another visit with her physician who was an encouraging specialist but was also a pragmatist. In her experience, their situation was classed as "unexplained infertility" or she said, "We can't figure out why."

He pulled into a parking lot and for a while, his thoughts were pushed away as his attention was directed to his mother, getting seated in the restaurant, and ordering food. It pleased him to see his mother and Sara communicating in sign language, laughing together, apparently enjoying each other's company.

And guilt swelled in his chest.

While he never considered himself to be the perfect son, his mother had loved him unconditionally, always encouraged him, appreciated his work, welcomed his visits—if not physically present, she had always been with him in spirit. The person who had known and loved him since his first breath; Sara would not have that experience.

"Gil?"

Sara's voice interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to reality. A question had been asked; his confusion showed.

"Your mom asked about Peru—when will you return?"

It served as a balm to his swirling mind, his adult problems. Turning to his mother, he began to sign, explaining details, processes, the actual location of the Peruvian project, until their dinner arrived.

 _A few weeks later_ …

"Gil?" Sara's voice lifted in soft query, drifted across the breakfast table, over the edge of the newspaper, and settled before him as lightly as dust motes. The concern he heard was very similar to what he had heard the day before in another place.

In truth, since the humiliating meeting with a group of physicians, he desired nothing more than to be left alone. Not even Sara's presence or her efforts to make him comfortable could he tolerate for long.

The finale comments of one of the specialists circled relentlessly in his brain: "When sperm counts are low, the body says now is not a good time to reproduce and we have to put our energies into something else."

Knowing his frustration would be heard in his voice, he lowered the paper, indicating the chair next to his, and reached for her hand. Her response was a wry smile and a gentle squeeze from her hand.

He said, "I feel I'm a lose end."

All day he had felt muddled, unsettled, disinterested; he felt like a stranger inhabited his mind. He could not read or write or enjoy music. It had been difficult to organize his thoughts to such extent that he was not confident that he would ever know that state again. Not here, not with the painful attentiveness, given with tenderness and unquestionable love, of his wife.

Sara's hand moved to his shoulder and across his back; gentle, long fingers pressing against his shirt.

"You've had a long shift," he whispered, hoping the low tone would hide his current state.

Her head tilted to touch his shoulder. "It's so different from when you were there."

His fingers stroked her hand. "You—you don't have to stay, you know."

A soft chuckle before she said, "For a while—I need to stay for a while." She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. "And I need some sleep." Keeping her hand on his back, she stood, saying, "Did you sleep?"

"A few hours."

Sara kissed the top of his head. "Join me—for a while."

"I will—later. Hank needs to pee—and—and I have a couple of errands to do—before traffic gets too bad."

Her fingers threaded through his hair as he turned his face to hers and they kissed. He said, "Get some sleep—I'll join you later."

Alone again with the dog, he walked the neighboring streets, gradually becoming aware of all the sounds around him. The sun was high, the temperature rising, and he heard the playful sounds of children. And the noise caused him to reflect on all that had been said at the clinic.

Three specialists, solemn and sincere, tried to explain the unexplainable with a thick medical file spread on the table. Sara—the perfect patient—was not pregnant; healthy and fertile by all scientific indications, her body fit for child bearing—while his body-his inability to produce healthy sperm was the 'period'—the 'exclamation point'—on the last page of that file. Stopping short of saying he would never father a child, the indication was clear. Cautiously, one had proposed options; Sara had shaken her head.

The physicians had offered optimism for the future. "Take a break." "Research continues." He had stopped listening by then. Hope—he closed his eyes—a simple word that belittled their plans.

He had been the one—his suggestion to have a family—he had pressed Sara into testing, continuing all of it—and now—it was his body that failed.

Turning, he walked back along the street, passing the one to his house, even as Hank tugged to return home. Continuing, he crossed street intersections and ambled along sidewalks from one neighborhood to another before the dog abruptly sat on his haunches and refused to go farther. At that point, he stopped, looked around, surprised at how far he and Hank had walked.

The sun had heated the morning; he wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. As he looked at the houses, he was startled to recognize the neighborhood was so far from his own. And he knew where he was.

"Come on, buddy, I think I know where we might get a drink of water before heading back."

A few minutes later, he was standing across the street from a large, imposing red-brick house; one he had visited on several occasions. Instead of going to the front door, he followed a path to a side door. The house had changed, he thought, as he approached the door.

Scattered across the porch were colorful toys; a pink plastic swing hung from a low tree branch. He noticed a grass-free patch, made from frequent use, under the swing.

His foot was on the first step before he hesitated. It had been almost three years since he'd been to the house; that long since he'd talked to its occupant. And, from appearances, Heather Kessler's granddaughter was at the house on a regular basis.

Grissom looked at his dog, sitting near his feet, his tongue lolling from his mouth. He said, "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

The words had not cleared his mouth when he heard the click of the door. Too late, he thought, as he looked up.

 _A/N: Yes, its a 'cliff hanger'-or a 'door opener'! Review, comment, a few words, and next chapter appears in a few days! Yes, it's a bribe! Bit of smut coming soon!_


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N:** Another chapter! At one time, we'd hope to finish this one on the one year anniversary of the CSI finale-we haven't done that-so it continues!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 19**

A face appeared in the oval window of the door; not Heather but the woman he recognized as Heather's housekeeper smiled as she opened the door.

"It's Mr. Grissom, isn't it?" She waved her hand. "Come in, come in! It's good to see you again." After a few seconds of hesitation, she added, "Are you expected?"

An awkward moment followed as the woman held the door and Grissom paused on the steps.

"Oh," she said with a quiet laugh, "your dog—it's fine to bring him inside."

Hank seemed to understand the invitation and immediately climbed the steps, tail wagging.

"And it appears he'd like to come inside!" The woman laughed; Grissom tried with no avail to remember her name.

Grissom followed the dog. And then followed the housekeeper and the dog into a large, well-appointed kitchen. Glancing around, he knew there had been changes. Gone were the trappings of Heather's former business and the expensive china plates and cups that he had used for tea on several occasions. A bright yellow cereal box was on the countertop. There was a Disney placemat on the small table.

The house had once been the scene of parties and staged dramas that would be unbelievable to most people. Heather had willingly shared her fetish knowledge with him on several occasions but today, the house was different. Brighter, sun blazing in windows he had never noticed. A display of photographs of a laughing little girl decorated the yellow walls of the dining area. A child's drawings adorned a door and a window.

Finding his voice, Grissom said, "I—I didn't plan a visit—I—I was in the neighborhood." His hand waved toward Hank. "I—Hank needed water—I—we walked too far."

The woman was filling a bowl with water as he spoke. She said, "Heather's not here this morning. She goes to Alison's school once a week." Turning to the refrigerator, she brought out a pitcher of lemonade, filled a glass and handed it to Grissom. "She's doing good—really good."

As Grissom lifted the glass to his lips, she continued, "Would you like a sandwich? How are you doing? We heard you'd left the lab."

Shaking his hand at her offer of food, he answered, "I'm doing good—married Sara after I left the lab. We've traveled some. We're doing—we're doing good. She's back in Vegas working again."

"And you? What are you doing?" The housekeeper wiped two small drops of water from the countertop. With a quiet laugh, she said, "I can't see you as retired—I mean, really retired—drinking coffee with all those retired cops at Franks Diner."

With a smile, Grissom told her where he had recently traveled. "Peru is a beautiful country—doing so much to preserve and uncover its history," he added. "I'm going back again to—to finish up."

"And Sara doesn't go with you?"

Softly, Grissom chuckled, shaking his head. The housekeeper was much more direct than Heather had ever been. He said, "No, she stays here—the dog—my mother is here."

Then he saw her eyes lift slightly; her head tilted a fraction of an inch. And he realized Heather was not the only one in this house with the ability to interpret words that were not spoken.

"It works for us," he said and smiled before he emptied the glass. "Thanks for the lemonade. Tell Heather I'll call next time I'm—I'm near—sorry to miss her."

The housekeeper nodded, almost imperceptibly. She said, "I can call a taxi."

"No—no, we can walk back." With a low whistle from Grissom, Hank stood, cooled and refreshed, ready to follow his master. "Thank you for the water—and lemonade—from both of us."

As he turned toward the door, the woman said, "Would you like to leave your phone number? She'd like to hear from you again."

Pausing a few seconds, he replied, turning to face her with a smile, "I have her number—I'll—I'll be in touch. Thank you, again."

During the long walk home, Grissom thought about Heather for a few minutes, deciding she had overcome depression and sadness and moved on to a stable, and from appearances, loving relationship with her granddaughter. As a therapist, he had no doubt that Heather was first-rate.

As he and Hank crossed a busy intersection, his thoughts turned to Sara. Sara with her loving and gentle ways deserved a happy, fulfilled life. Devastated as he was at the outcome of their attempts at having a child, he knew she felt crushing pain yet had managed to push beyond her own grief to comfort him. But there was something that made him remain quiet—an irascible stubbornness—an illogical belief that she could not know what this failure meant to him.

He had given Hank a length of leash and the dog raced ahead several yards then circled back to repeat his sprint again. The dog was happy to be moving again—and toward home. Grissom's steady pace held until Hank tired of running and joined his side.

While impatient to get home, the long walk gave him time to reflect and consider. The brief stop at Heather Kessler's home had given him a glance into the future. Heather had moved on as he must.

Plans he had made—he and Sara had made—would not happen. Looking back, he knew he had been overconfident in his expectations. For a moment, he felt the humiliation again; he needed time and activity to distract him from what might have been. Time alone.

Yet, when he entered their home, found Sara asleep in bed with a book next to her, the familiarity of it, caused his breathe to catch in his chest. He realized he would always be in love with this woman. Her dark hair spread across the pillow; her arm was thrown across the bed so her hand lay on his pillow. A bare pale foot had managed to work free of covers.

Quietly, he retreated to the second bathroom and showered, fed Hank a handful of food on his way back to the bedroom, and crawled into the shared bed. Carefully, he lifted Sara's hand from the pillow and placed it on his chest.

Sara stirred in her sleep.

"It's me," whispered Grissom.

And even in her sleep, Sara shifted toward him. He was asleep in minutes.

Hours later, he woke to find himself alone in bed. Quickly raising his head, he heard quiet noise, the clink of a cup, a soft murmur of a voice, coming from the kitchen. A few minutes later, after a quick wash-up, he ambled through the house looking for Sara, found her standing at the back door, watching Hank in the back yard.

"You left me," he said as he wrapped arms around her waist.

She smiled as she turned to kiss him, her lips lightly brushing against his. "You were sleeping—I thought you needed it." Her arms twined around his neck. "It's quiet—I'm on call for tonight and not needed—let's—let's go back to bed and." Her eyes suddenly gleamed with love and mischief.

Grissom eyebrows lifted in an undisguised surprise.

Sara laughed softly and reached to frame his face with her hands. "Let's just get in bed—talk for a while—read together—and—and just be us." Her smile broadened. "We don't have to do anything—but we can." Sexy, seductive.

She knew how to get his attention. He said, "Have sex because…" At the sight of her dark eyes, sparkling with gold, an aching hunger seized him.

"Because we can," she said.

In the hours that followed, Gil Grissom remembered meeting Sara Sidle and knew she was going to be more than a mere acquaintance. Fate, luck, chemistry—whatever it was, he had known, she would be the one person who stayed in his life. The one person he loved—who loved him without question. She had waited, watched him as he stumbled through year after year, like someone worshipping a god who will become a miracle one day. Steadfast, loyal to a fault.

For a while, they read from individual books; then he read from his thick tome of Shakespeare, favorite sonnets, a short story. Sara rested her head on his shoulder as his voice, quiet and melodious, read line after line.

Gradually, the distracted hand-holding became a rhythm that stirred a change when he leaned over and kissed Sara. And the kiss was so passionate that she was moving; he was rubbing his hand along her right thigh. Her pelvis rocked forward in a way that made contact with his and minutes later, they were breathing so heavily that every breath sent a plume of sensation up and down his spine.

They were making adjustments and removing clothes—not many for him—as urgency dominated their passion. His hands were all over her body; lips barely brushed soft skin as she wiggled under him, fitting against his body as if she'd been molded for him.

Sara received him in one body-shuddering moment and then very quickly came the soft powerful explosion of her orgasm. He wanted to slow down, to take immense pleasure in this moment, but then he came as lightening, strong spasms of her vagina seemed to grip his solid erection as if to suck every drop of his fluid into her body. He drove himself into her attempting to become part of her; for a time he was.

Afterwards, he knew bliss by the look on her face; such perfect, complete joy that his sudden shame took him by surprise. How could he be the man he wanted to be with her when he was so disappointed in himself? Contrary to her assuring words, he had failed them.

A tender kiss on his chin turned his face to Sara's. Her expression, caring and loving, tempted him to reveal his crushing pain; she was equally devastated. His thoughts would not form into words. Instead, he kissed her, remaining quiet as he shifted to hold her in his arms.

After a while, Sara's fingers played on his bare chest. She asked, "What are you thinking?"

He squeezed her in a gentle hug. "Nothing—can you sleep?"

A quiet giggled followed. " are always thinking."

Sighing, he knew he'd been caught. "What I'll do next."

"Peru!" She exclaimed as she sat up, resting an arm across his chest. "Is there something else? Something you've not mentioned?"

"No—no," he assured her.

"I know you are anxious to get back." Her eyebrows cocked upward with a thought. "What would you say to this—Betty and I meet you in—in Lima—maybe another place—when you finish? See the Galapagos together—we could meet you in Quito or Lima and go from there!"

For a few minutes, he was silent; then his smile formed, slowly growing with his thoughts. "That's a good idea—I think my mom would enjoy something like that."

Almost immediately, enthusiasm filled Sara's eyes. "I know she would!" She leaned over and kissed his lips. "It will be fun for all of us!"

"Can you get the time off?"

After a quick roll of her eyes, she confirmed, "I will—your mom and me." She giggled saying, "After a month in the jungle—will you be ready for us?"

 _A week later_ …

With his feet planted firmly on the ground, Grissom knew he had made the right decision. In the deep-green jungle, digging into the mahogany-brown soil, searching for the mysteries of unknown inhabitants, he found an atmosphere where the physical exercise of work helped him escape the tangled thoughts of his mind. Except in the darkness of night.

 _A/N: Thank for reading! And review this time. We haven't heard from some of you in weeks! So take a few minutes and send a comment! More to come._


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: A new chapter! Enjoy!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 20**

By the time arrangements were made to travel, there were two cabins left on one of the ships that cruised around the Galapagos Islands. Less than one hundred ships traveled around the islands and people planned years in advance for their vacation-of-a-lifetime.

Grissom knew Sara had spent hours searching, organizing, making sure his mother would have accommodations she needed. He read review after review-less than one hundred passengers aboard a vessel that wasn't built as a cruise ship but as a research ship, no room service, no balconies, but the company had an excellent reputation.

He wasn't sure about the plane he was in. Or the pilot—who was young and talked a lot. The plane lurched in an air current as it cleared the last range of mountains; at last, Grissom could see the coastline.

Finally, on the tarmac with his bag in his hand, he could laugh at the flight as he looked around, quickly realizing he wasn't at the airport—not the real airport where jets landed.

The other passengers, all ten of them, headed to a building—a warehouse—in the distance.

Catching up with a couple of stragglers, he asked, "Where are we? This isn't the airport." Then repeated what he'd said in Spanish.

In Spanish, one of the men said they were near the docks. He pointed to the west and swept his arm eastward, thought for a minute and said, "Cargo runway."

Grissom pulled a folded paper out of his pocket and showed it to the men. After conversing for a few minutes, the two men pointed again.

"Taxi," one of them said.

After thanking the men, he hurried across the landing strip, finding an opening between two of the warehouses, and kept walking until he found a street. And then he walked another five or six blocks before he found a taxi. In twenty minutes, he was at the hotel, a modern structure near the city's international airport, where he was meeting Sara—and his mother. Only one night and then the flight to Baltra; he had arrived hours before their flight was scheduled to land.

Thinking he would make good use of his time, he called the desk for a laundry pick-up, unpacked his one bag and stuffed everything in it into the hotel's laundry bag. Then, he stripped off naked and pushed those clothes in with the others and placed the dirty clothes outside the room's door.

By the time the laundry bag was picked up, he was in the shower, thankful for hot water and a good bar of soap. Afterwards, he wrapped a towel around his waist, folded the bed covers back, and stretched across the king-size bed, sheets smelling lightly of bleach and a soft pillow that actually cradled his head. In minutes, he was asleep.

When he woke, his first muddled thought was confusion before remembering he was in a hotel bed; he thought he'd been asleep for an hour, maybe two, until his eyes cleared. The room was dark and he was tucked underneath covers. And someone was in the middle of the bed.

Sitting up in bed, his eyes adjusting to darkness, his legs made contact with those of his wife. He made a surprised grunt, unable to believe he'd slept so sound that he'd not heard her arrival.

The noise he had made caused her to stir and then he knew she'd opened her eyes. Her hand touched his backside.

"You're awake," she whispered, her voice husky from sleep.

He reclined, realized a towel was bunched around his middle, and tugged it free. He said, "I can't believe I slept through—through everything." His arms slipped around her warm body; his hands touched a soft tee-shirt. "When did you get in? How was the trip? And Mom—how is she?"

Her response was a soft murmur as her lips touched his neck and gently tracked upward to his chin until their lips met. Her hands, fingers were running through his hair. A leg wrapped around his thigh. His hand floated to that place where her panties met her thigh; his fingers moved under stretchy lace and found the crevice of her butt.

Tightening his grip, he pulled her closer. His hand circled, pushing her panties down as she lifted her hips.

Gil Grissom had not forgotten how much he loved his wife. For weeks, he had thought of her; thought of the time in his life before Sara Sidle. She was such a contrast to all other women he had met. Intelligent, compassionate, and beautiful; God, he loved every cell in her body.

In the midst of very heated, passionate kissing, he slipped his hand between Sara's legs and immediately broke away from the kiss.

"What's this?"

Sara giggled.

His fingers probed gently. After a soft chuckle, he said, "What's going on?"

Another giggle.

"I need to check this out." Grissom's head disappeared beneath the covers. In absolute darkness, his fingers explored. "This is not familiar! What's happened?"

With his head totally buried between Sara's legs, he decided to do what he wanted to do. Gently, he touched his tongue to the swollen bud not quite hidden by tight curls.

Sara shivered and made a sound—a stifled squeal—he was certain of it but the strong tug of her hands on his hair caused him to move upward, quickly. And then he was perfectly fitted along her body, his appropriate appendage sliding between her legs, feeling the heat and dampness of her against sensitive skin.

He had lost the ability to speak. She found his mouth again, lifted her hips to his, and, as he had discovered many times, he knew this woman was made for him.

His hand fit along the curve of her breast. Stretching over her, his body seemed to conform to her curves. He stroked gently, finding sensitive places until she drew a sharp breath and twisted against his hand.

The intimacy of the moment drove a desperate need he had shoved deep within his mind for weeks. When he thrust inside her, exquisite pleasure unleashed waves of passion. No longer in control, he felt Sara's fingernails in his shoulders.

"Sara." His voice was filled with surprise; then he felt her orgasm, gathering like a sudden storm. For a few moments, he continued moving, slower, his eyes opened as he watched desire and ecstasy bloom on her face. He felt her muscles tighten around his penis; somewhere in his brain, one cell tried to slow his actions.

In an instant, he exploded. In the heart of her storm, floodgates opened. The muscles of his back turned to granite; his mouth opened with a muffled shout, and then his climax was on him. A second wave of pleasure flashed and pulsed between them before either could catch a breath.

Lips crushed lips, hands soothed, hips rose, legs entwined; finally, Sara stretched along her husband's body, elbows resting on his chest.

"I don't think I can walk," she whispered in a voice edged with laughter.

After a long kiss, Grissom laughed with her, saying, "I know I'll be walking funny!"

The room had brightened with early dawn; soft morning light diffused shapes into furniture, luggage, and clothing. And they could finally see each other.

"We're to meet in the lobby—at seven." Sara said as she stretched long legs along his, sliding her foot against his calf.

Suddenly, he remembered. "I have to check you out—something very unfamiliar is going on."

Giggling as she rolled to his side, she flipped covers away, giving him an approving perusal from face to groin. "I got waxed." Her eyebrows lifted with amusement.

Grinning, he scooted down the bed, gently spreading her legs as he sat up. His fingertip traced along her skin. "It's heart-shaped." His fingers slipped between her soft cleft.

Sara shivered as he continued to touch her. "I got a new swim suit—I—I got my legs waxed and when I told the girl I was going on a cruise, she—she suggested." Another soft giggle and tremor as his finger slowly swept inside her.

Grissom leaned over and kissed the heart-shaped tangle of short curls. After the kiss, his tongue darted in and out several times which caused Sara to lift her hips to meet his mouth. As he continued, her sounds turned to a low moan; his hands cupped her butt to hold her and he felt her hands tangled in his hair.

He should have gotten a haircut, he thought, as she twined and twisted his long hair in her fingers. That thought disappeared quickly as his tongue tasted feminine fluids, his lips brushed soft tissue, his teeth gently grasped her swollen bud, and he felt the heat of her body.

As he murmured unintelligible words against her, encouraging her to come, he felt the intense heat of a white-hot flash of pleasure. For a moment, he feared she would pull away as he slid fingers into her wet passage. Several minutes passed before the pulsing energy of her orgasm climbed and crested and she collapsed into a panting puddle.

When he settled beside her, pulling the bed covers to their chins and keeping his hand cupped between her legs, he whispered, "That's for the heart."

 _A/N: We appreciate all your comments! Keep them coming!_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: A new chapter! Now, for a bit of blackmail-we planned to carry this story beyond the CSI finale, but based on reviews (and thank you to those who do), we are deciding what to do-shorten it or keep it as originally designed. Yes, this is a request for a review and your opinion._

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 21**

Young Charles Darwin spent weeks on these islands, planting the seeds that grew into his theory of natural selection. The lush ecosystem of plants and animals, blue footed boobies on one island, red footed boobies on another, iguanas in red and green and black, sharks and sea lions, dozens of species of birds, the giant tortoises, took on hues and colors and shapes found nowhere else on earth.

For Gil Grissom, he felt he was following in the steps of Darwin, often holding the hand of one of the women with him. But just as often, he walked alone among nesting birds, legions of iguanas, and herds of sea lion and seals that did not flee from humans.

Every experience exceeded expectations.

The ship with its sleek black and white paint was much more up to date than he'd thought it would be. A spacious open deck at the front of the ship provided ample space for watching the sea and sky, or for doing nothing. An assortment of antennas, satellites and other navigational equipment served multiple purposes other than connecting to the internet. The ship could slip into shallow bays and coves off-limits to larger vessels. It could move fast in the open ocean going from one island to another. Or it could barely move at all when sharks or dolphins or manta rays were spotted.

Small inflatable boats ferried passengers from ship to shore, often with a splashing watery landing. He was thankful Sara had brought sandals and quick-drying pants for him.

According to the cruise advertisement, there were more crew members than passengers; a situation that came with an appearance of competence and ease observed in everything from delicious meals and knowledgeable guides to each cabin getting a quick fresh-up while everyone was at dinner.

Days were spent exploring land and sea while evenings were for learning. The guides—naturalists—who made presentations on all aspects of the islands—encouraged discussions and questions. And as Sara had found on her previous trip, the conversations were mind-blowing.

Betty, with a room across the hallway, was surprised to find a crew member assigned to her who knew sign language and helped her set up a lighted signal system. The young woman was with her for every excursion, for nightly presentations, providing a third pair of hands for signing.

As Grissom and Sara had unpacked, slid bags under the bed, checked out the bed and bathroom, Sara had stretched her arms, almost touching the walls.

"It's small—but we won't be here much," she said.

"It's perfect," he assured her.

More than perfect—Grissom felt he had entered the Garden of Eden when he stepped onto the first island, on Mars as they walked across a lava field, and, after much encouragement and a little teasing, he pulled on a wet suit and snorkeled in the ocean to find an underwater paradise of fish, turtles, and even a lone white-tip shark.

The first time the passengers crossed the equator, the sunset seemed to set fire to the sea and sky with a spectacular display of orange, red, and yellow; dark outlines of dormant volcanoes made for a dramatic backdrop to a celebration of champagne and a buffet of fruits, nuts, cheeses, and pasta dishes.

On the fifth day, after snorkeling with colorful fish and sea turtles, the guide pointed to several small sharks, one wrapped in fishing nets, plastic bands, and hooks that were cutting into his flesh.

From his pocket, the man pulled a knife, saying, "Do you think we can cut it away?"

The others in the zodiac silently nodded; the guide was the first to slip into the water, followed by six more. It wasn't easy work but gradually the six snorkelers circled the small shark, the guide managed to cut part of the lines away and as the lines floated away, the swimmers caught the almost transparent net and pulled.

With a fast flip, the shark was free, swimming away from the group, living up to the mako's reputation as the fastest swimmer in the sea.

A chorus of cheers went up as the group swam back to the zodiac; hands extended to pull several aboard while the rest climbed the ladder. Everyone laughed, congratulated each other and the guide for either helping the shark or for avoiding getting a shark bite. There was a minute of wide-eyed, deep breathing before the ones who had been in the water started laughing.

On the ship, the night's topic of discussion was sharks—from the movie "Jaws" to the depletion of sharks around the world. Hunted to near extinction, one of the naturalists, talked about 'sharkfinning', where fifty thousand dollars paid fin cutters for one shark fin used to make soup.

Much later, in the pale light of their small cabin, Grissom said, "This is probably the best experience of my life," he chuckled as he tucked hands behind his head, stretched so his heels touched the end of the bed, and watched Sara pull a light-weight shirt over her head.

A broad smile spread across her face. "That was pretty," she laughed, "pretty darn awesome in a world of awesome. I can't believe we jumped in like that—that water was freezing!"

When she got in bed, he circled her shoulders with an arm. He said, "You are a water nymph. I don't think I knew you were such a good swimmer. You were out of that boat—I didn't have time to stop you so I jumped in." He rolled to face her, adding, "This is truly the trip of a lifetime."

Sara snuggled into the space he'd created for her. "And what were you and Peter discussing in the corner? It looked deep."

Chuckling softly, he told her what he'd learned about small groups around the world working to "save the world" one small act at a time. "Greenpeace and Sea Shepherd are the big ones. But there are groups—most are semi-organized—in every ocean trying to stop destruction of species. It's amazing what they do with little or no funding, no recognition."

They talked for a while—about what they had seen, what they expected to see in the days ahead. The ship was under way, moving smoothly in the night to the next island; the gentle rising and falling lulled both of them to sleep.

Hours later, Grissom woke. As he listened to the night noises, surprisingly quiet for a small ship with nearly two hundred people on board, he heard or felt a slight shudder followed by a sharp click. A door had opened and closed. Intently, he listened for, and heard the quiet pad of footsteps.

Why was his mother out of her cabin in the middle of the night?

Easing out of bed, placing his pillow against Sara's shoulder, he found pants and a shirt and as quietly as possible, he left the room in time to see his mother disappear around a far corner.

He followed.

A few minutes later, he was thirty feet behind her, when she opened the door of the ship's small library. He paused, almost decided to return to his bed, but reconsidered after he thought of how little time he'd spent with his mother on this trip. He was awake and dressed; they could talk.

As he had done since he was a child, when he entered the library, he flipped the lights on and off. A quick signal he'd learned when he wanted to get his mother's attention.

Startled, she flinched as she turned, then smiled when she saw him. In her hand was a thin book which she placed on a table. She signed, "You have always done that."

He laughed, signing, "Why are you in the library in the middle of the night?"

His mother gave him a brief hug before indicating chairs. Once settled across from each other, Betty showed him the book she had finished reading and signed, "I'm looking for one about Sea Shepherd or something similar."

"Why?"

Betty laughed before she signed, "I can read lips. Especially yours. I've seen you tilt your head, be intense." She sighed, placed fingers over her eyes, and shook her head before looking at her son. "I know you—does Sara know yet?"

Grissom feigned confusion, throwing hands up, index fingers pointed upward; he signed his surprise and then asked her to explain.

She did. He had always been a private person, she signed. Even as a child, he'd kept secrets, not in a harmful way, not furtive or covert but he would have his plans made before he revealed anything.

And tonight, she had seen his passion rising for the oceans, the wildlife, the environment. Finally, she laughed and signed "Sara".

When Grissom appeared confused, she signed, "Sara will wait for you forever. She is a good woman. A good daughter to me. A good wife. She loves you very much. Do not hurt her."

Grissom knew his wife and his mother had grown close. He signed, "I will not hurt her."

For several minutes, they 'talked' about the trip; Betty's eyes sparkled as she enlivened her conversation with observations most people missed.

Then, abruptly, his mother changed subjects, signing, "You cannot have children." She then made her hands as if she were cradling a baby. Grissom knew she was not asking a question.

Obviously, his mother knew; he was certain Sara had not told her. He signed, "How did you know? It is me—Sara is healthy."

Reaching across the table, she took his hands in hers and held them for a long moment. Releasing him, she shook her head and began to sign. "You had a high fever—when you were fifteen. Do you remember? You were so sick. I put ice bags all over your body all night." She paused and reached for his hands again, holding them for a minute, gently stroking her thumbs over his, before she signed, "Fever can do things to a young man. Affect fertility."

For a few seconds, he had to grasp that his mother was discussing a very personal situation with him, but since she had approached the subject, he answered her questions, gave an explanation, without too many details, of procedures they had tried without success.

"There are other doctors," she signed, "research brings new techniques."

He nodded; it was difficult to convey the disappointments and failures. For him, it was regret and remorse, feelings he could not explain to anyone.

"Adoption?" She signed as a question.

A slight shake of his head as he signed, "We have not given up. Adoption is difficult for someone my age." For a few seconds, he scrutinized his mother's face finding his own eyes in hers. He asked, "What would you have done if I had not been born? After my dad died? Have you thought about life without me?"

She smiled, kind and thoughtful, as she took his hands. It had been years since he had heard his mother speak, but in the quiet library, she whispered, "I had you, my son, my child, my ally and champion." She released his hands and signed, "I do not remember thinking about life without you. It is what a mother does. But you—you are thinking about Sara's life without you? Yes?"

He nodded.

Betty's brow wrinkled with a solemn expression. She signed, "Pride, Gil. Do not allow pride to cause misery and despair. Sara is happy. I see this when she visits me. When we are together, she is happy. You go away and she is sad but she knows you are happy and that brings her happiness. Come home quickly."

Their conversation had not changed how he felt, but he was thankful for his mother's frank exchange, realizing once again, that her deafness did not decrease her enjoyment of life.

Extending his hand, he said, "Let's go outside—to the deck."

Darkness had lifted by the time they reached the deck but they were the only ones there. A pale light was developing to the east; stars could be seen in the western sky. If not for the low hum of engines, Grissom would have thought the ship was dead in the glassy water.

As the sky brightened, Betty's lifted her face to his; her nose wrinkled in a sniff. He smiled, smelling coffee as quickly as his mother had.

Together, they stood under a clear sky, the ship sailing into another gleaming, vibrant day. A few people had joined them on the deck but placed themselves at a distance, quietly enjoying early dawn.

Betty switched her gaze to her son. He was facing forward, looking ahead, to where they were going.

 _A/N: Thanks for reading-now take 10 seconds to leave a comment! GSR is the best love story ever developed within a series-don't let it die! Give encouragement, not just to us, but to other writers, by leaving a review!_


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N: Thank you for reading. Thank you for your comments and reviews and encouragement.**_

 _ **This is a sad chapter...**_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 22**

Sara Sidle sat in a comfortable chair on the terrace after working all morning in the yard. She'd spent months in the yard with a hoe and shovel digging, trenching, and back-filling following instructions from a state issued booklet on landscaping. She had done most of the work by herself. And while she loved the house, decorated with their furniture, books, photographs, and keepsakes, it had been a joint effort.

The yard was hers, a true masterpiece; never thought she'd enjoy digging dirt and planting flowers to attract insects, but she did. She planted drought resistant plants, nectar flowers, ground covers requiring little water—and she'd recently finished a small area with a recycled water-fountain bird bath marking the grave of their dog, Hank, who had died suddenly after suffering a seizure.

Sighing, she picked up a folded fan, opened it and waved it in front of her face, gradually smiling as she thought of its long journey to the table beside her chair. Hot pink, decorated with miniature Eiffel Towers, it was to remind her of Paris breezes. Gil Grissom was delightfully loveable when he presented a gift, even a plastic party fan.

Every time her husband returned from one of his far-flung adventures, he brought her a souvenir, sometimes it was a local trinket like this fan, other times he brought something unique—a fish carved from shell, a lion woven from yarn, a clay face mask, a slim box containing a beautiful necklace.

A week ago, he had sent a plant—a very large, very green one that she'd planted near Hank's grave. The plant would produce spikes of purple flowers in a few weeks attracting hummingbirds, bees, and butterflies. He probably would not be around to see the flowers—or enjoy the bees, butterflies, and birds in their garden—because he was on the other side of the earth.

Sara had never expected him to retire as other men did—playing golf or poker with old buddies; but she'd never thought he would travel the world for months at a time. She thought he would teach—forensics or entomology, most likely—or some similar subject that fit with his years in the Vegas crime lab. He had been good at investigating murders, hunting down killers, serial, singular, or mass murderers, finding evidence that sealed the case.

Instead of any of those things, Gil Grissom was somewhere on the high seas—the Indian Ocean if his schedule, planned weeks ago, was correct—on a ship researching animal life in hydrothermal vents. She'd had to look up hydrothermal vents.

Her smile turned to a cheerless downturn as she thought of the missed calls since he'd been gone, more missed than received. He did not know about Hank and she had made the decision to keep it from him until he got home.

Pushing out of the chair, she wandered around the yard. Life turned in weird and unexpected ways, she thought. She was friends with her mother-in-law—good friends—not to put a fine point on it, but she considered Betty Grissom the best friend she'd had in years. She felt useful and rewarded in her job. And after a life time of guarding every dollar she spent, she had, at age forty, inherited more money than she had ever expected to see.

With the money, her mother was receiving good care in a group home and experiencing more good days than bad ones. Sara, spending money on herself, had purchased a new car, taken a vacation that had turned into a life-changing direction for her husband and had barely made a dent in the trust from a grandfather she'd never known.

Grissom had said, "Enough to pay for anything she wanted but not enough to do nothing."

Tears welled in her eyes as she stepped passed the new mound of flowering plants. Her dog—their dog—had been a good companion but it was too early to replace the beloved boxer.

Wiping her eyes, she had a moment of self pity. Her only disappointment—she had two, she thought, as she pulled a weed hidden among flowers—her husband was away for months at a time and they had not had children—a child.

After months of testing and attempts, having a child was not likely to happen. They had to face the reality of their situation—while her husband had problems that could be overcome with technology, it seemed she had an idiopathic condition of her uterus that made pregnancy unviable. An unknown, unfound reason that her body would not sustain a pregnancy.

Taking a deep breath as she stood, letting the disappointment wash over her before shaking her head and continuing her wander, she—they—needed to decide on their future. A family was still possible; a child of their own with surrogacy or—or adoption through the foster care system. Both options raised dilemmas not easily solved.

There were other options. With her foot, she pushed several round stones out of the path.

She could join her husband on a research project; she'd give up her job with only a few years left until she would be fully vested in the state's retirement program, leave both mothers for months, pull money from the trust account to cover expenses—and that option depended on finding a project where they could both work.

Grissom could look for a project on land—she puffed a breath of air; at one time, she wanted him to be close, in Vegas at the university, but now she'd settle for a place where she could fly. A real named place instead of a dot in an ocean.

She knew there was a restlessness in her husband; one that had arrived, not with his retirement from the lab, but—she could not put her finger on a date with precision—but his discontent came from their decision to have a child—not having a child, she corrected her thoughts.

Neither had said the words, but she knew she was no longer enough for him. He loved her, she had no doubt, but he wanted a child, his—their child. Her quiet suggestions of adoption had vanished, melted away with no response from her husband.

She accepted his reaction; at the time they thought it was his inability to produce mature sperm, but now, she knew, he knew—the chances of a pregnancy, that she would have a baby, were nearly nil. A surrogate carrier had only come to her attention recently—and while laws in Nevada were still being legislated, California was light-years ahead of other states. And not a subject she would discuss over the phone.

Sighing as she walked back to the terrace, she thought she knew why her husband remained absent from home.

It was complicated, she thought, but Gil Grissom had always been complicated.

Finally making her way back to the chair, she heard her phone ping with a missed call. Quickly, she pressed the call back bar with a sense of apprehension.

… _Nine days later_ , Gil Grissom sat in a beautifully decorated room dedicated as a chapel on the campus of Gilbert College. Sara's hand had slipped into his at some point during the emotional service for Betty Grissom.

Squeezing her hand, he glanced at his wife who was watching the woman at the front of the room. His eyes went to the photograph of his mother surrounded by brightly colored flowers; the room was filled with a hundred people he did not know and a dozen of his former colleagues and friends. Thankful his mother had planned her own service, he'd had to do nothing but show up. He entwined his fingers with Sara's and brought her hand to his lap and covered both with his left hand.

Whatever had to be done, Sara had taken care of it. She had sent a message to the ship's captain of an emergency at home involving Grissom's mother. By the time Grissom placed a satellite call, his mother was in a coma with little hope of recovery.

He had made it back to Vegas before his mother died; on a combination of four ships, passing from one to another until a small, fast moving supply boat had landed him in Singapore where he'd flown to Los Angeles and then Vegas. Jim Brass was there to pick him up and in minutes, in clothes he had worn for thirty-six hours, he was standing beside his mother's bed.

Sara had hugged him at the door, saying "I'm so sorry" as she stepped aside.

He had learned how serious his mother was from Sara, a nurse, and, finally, a physician. "Profound" and "brainstem" and "labored breathing" were among the words used. It seemed like a dream as he sat beside the bed, holding his mother's frail hand, soft and warm but no movement, just passive flesh and bone. She appeared to be sleeping except for the monitors and lines and soft sounds of machines.

The physician said, "We've followed her directives."

Grissom had nodded. He also knew his mother's wishes. For hours, he sat by his mother watching her faint breaths, an almost imperceptible movement of air. Sara returned with clean clothes and he had showered and changed in the small hospital bathroom, feeling better in fresh clothes.

And she stayed with him. Occasionally, she placed food or a beverage in front of him which he consumed.

For the rest of the time, Sara did her best to comfort him. He moved between silence and talkativeness, remembering memories with his mother. Finally, Sara handed him her device so he could listen to music. He was surprised to hear Mozart and surprised Sara when he smiled.

After the service, he had done what was expected, greeted those who knew his mother at the college, eaten a little of the food prepared and set out by her colleagues, talked with those who had come from the lab, and, hours later, finally, shed his clothes and gotten in the shower.

Sara waited, handed him a towel as he stepped from the shower. "How are you doing?" She asked.

He smiled. "I was thinking about the day my father died. I didn't know what happened." He dried off and took the offered clothes—a fresh shirt and clean jeans—talking as he dressed. "A neighbor came over and took me to her house where I watch cartoons for a while. And then my grandparents came—they—they had to be in their seventies and lived near Riverside at the time—and brought these cookies." His fingers came together. "There were wrapped in this foil—made like a little boat."

Sara had heard the story before when they had wanted to share childhood memories with each other.

"My grandparents wanted to comfort me," he said with a weak smile. "For a long time, I thought my grandmother had baked the cookies and wrapped them as little gifts just for me." He stopped talking as he towel-dried his hair for a few minutes before continuing, "It was years before I realized she had stopped at a bakery—gotten something special because she didn't want to arrive empty-handed." His voice cracked and his fingers touched his lips.

Sara's arms opened as she stepped forward.

 _A/N: Again, thank you for reading. More coming soon._


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who continues to read our story! And those of you who review, know how much we appreciate hearing from you!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 23**

The letter, with its bright blue globe embossed within the letterhead, had been on the table for a week. A dozen times, Gil Grissom had picked it up; he was fairly certain, Sara had not touched it since the day it arrived.

He knew she'd read it; he had watched as she lowered her eyes, bit her bottom lip, and kept her index finger and thumb on the letter's creases. And she had given the impression of being excited but as the days passed, he felt her enthusiasm fade.

Deciding it was time for a decision—for him to make a decision—he had prepared breakfast.

Potatoes, eggs, milk and a handful of herbs were baking in the oven, walnut muffins waited in the warming pan, and, using a cookbook, he had mixed raspberries, figs, and goat cheese together for something cold. As he placed dishes on the table, he realized he was using his mother's china plates.

He didn't know Sara had put them in the cabinet.

A few minutes later, he heard the front door open and then Sara's voice.

"I'm home and what do I smell?"

With a basket of muffins in one hand and the pan of potatoes and eggs in the other, Grissom stepped from the kitchen. "You're home and on time! Breakfast is ready."

As they ate, sitting across from one another, Sara talked about her night's work. Tucking into another huge scoop of eggs and potatoes, she said, "This is good—delicious." After two bites, she placed her fork on her plate and reached to the end of the table where Grissom had stacked a bundle of mail, including the letter.

Bringing the letter between them, she said, "Have you accepted?" Her dark eyes met Grissom's.

She held steady as he realized he couldn't read her thoughts. Casting his eyes downward, he shook his head. "We haven't talked about it."

Sara fluttered the letter as she held it toward him. "Gil, you need to call. Tell them you'll be there! How many get an opportunity like this?"

Circling the Pacific Ocean on a research ship was best described as an opportunity of a life time.

"It would be for three months." He shook his head. "I—I—I'm not sure."

A soft laugh. "Take it. I know you want to do it. I'll stay busy—we'll talk, face time. Maybe I can fly out and meet you." She lifted the letter so it was between their faces. "This stuff is saving the world, you know."

At her words, Grissom raised his eyes to hers and smiled before chuckling. Sara would bring in saving the world.

Her smile was sincere; her words truthful. She had known her husband for too long—years before they had married, she had watched.

And Sara Sidle had always known this moment would come. From the first time they had shared a bed, from the first time she'd woken with him by her side. She had wished for his child, hoped they would have more time. She had no doubt that Gil Grissom loved her and, in what people referred to as her 'heart', she knew he would return. Love, she thought, would bring him home. Yet, if love was enough—she thought of all the times she'd seen love lead to horrible events. She hoped he would return.

The night before he left, Sara did not go into work. She had been quiet about her husband's plans; she'd tell them soon.

Before the sun set, they had walked, strolled through the shaded streets of their neighborhood. Some of the streets made broad curves while a few ran in straight lines.

"Did you know the straight streets were like a compass?" Sara said.

Softly, Grissom laughed. "I never knew that—how did you?"

"Greg told me. Originally, our neighborhood was designed to have a round-about where the four-way stop is but the developer changed it so the corner lots would be larger."

"True north and south?"

Sara nodded, adding, "And east and west."

The sun gave long shadows across lawns and a few blooming plants scented the air as they walked. In darkness they returned to their house holding hands, steps slowing as they came to the front door.

"You'll be safe."

Spoken as a statement, Sara's up note made it a question. Grissom held the door for her to enter before answering.

He said, "I'll be safe—I want you to promise me…"

She kissed him, breaking off what he was going to say. "I'll be here," she whispered.

"I'd feel better about all of this if you were going with me." After this, he crushed his mouth against hers, broke away, saying, "I'll miss you every day." Another kiss, this one deep and intimate, as his arms held her in a warm embrace. His mouth moved to the softness of her cheek.

"My dear Sara," he whispered. "Its—words have always been difficult for me when it comes to you."

He covered her mouth again continuing to kiss her and managed to close the door with his foot.

From the place near the front of the house, the two performed a nimble and smooth waltz through the living room to their bedroom. It would not win a dance contest, but both knew where they were heading.

Gently, Grissom eased his wife to the wide bed and with quick fingers, he removed her shirt and pushed her jeans to her ankles. She managed to kick them off. His mouth wandered to her breast, catching the delicate nipple between his lips, and closing his mouth over it.

Sara gasped and arched, grabbing his shirt and tugging it open, neither surprised when buttons went flying across the bed before the shirt followed. Her hands slipped into his hair as he nibbled at her breast, using his teeth and tongue with tormenting gentleness. One hand flattened against her belly; his index finger circled her naval. His fingers slid lower.

In a few minutes, intimate sounds of gasps, love words, and gentle laughter filled the air around them. Soothing strokes, gentle caresses, kisses that became more aggressive, ignited an urgency between them. A tantalizing fingertip brushed across her feminine folds, stroked, circling delicately, until Sara pushed her body up at the same moment she took his very erect penis and placed it where she wanted it.

When Grissom made a surprised groan, she whispered, "It wasn't doing anything for me waving between your legs."

In moments, he settled into a sweet rhythm until soft groans and gentle shudders brought her to a breath-taking orgasm. He did not hold back and seconds later, his own climax slammed through his body.

They stayed awake most of the night, discussing, searching and looking at places listed on his itinerary, following the planned route of the ship. Places neither had ever heard of before—Attu Station, the Sea of Okhotsk, several areas in Japan that had been hit by the earthquake and tsunami in 2011, and then Tokyo—possibly a place to meet, they decided.

Before he was ready, before they could bring their conversation back to meaningful words, before he could express all of his thoughts to the woman he loved dearly, it was time to leave for his flight. They did not speak of days and nights to come when thousands of miles would separate them.

As she drove to the airport, Sara asked mundane questions. "Do you have enough socks?" "Call when you arrive?" and his answers were just as routine.

When the airplane lifted off, Grissom looked out the window, looking down at the broad street running parallel to the runway. There, on the verge, he could see a car stopped; a Prius. And there he saw Sara standing in front of the car, her hand over her eyes as she watched the plane climb into the cloudless sky.

 _A/N: Again, thanks for reading. We appreciate hearing from you! More coming soon-what do you think of our take on how the bug loving Grissom ended up on a boat?_


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Okay, take a deep breath and dive in! Thanks for reading!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 24**

The sleek ship cut through the waves, sending a fine spray of salty water into Gil Grissom's face. He could have stepped away, near the chairs on deck, or even to the stern, but he liked looking forward. He smiled as he thought of his appearance, looking like a wet, excited dog on a hunt. He didn't care. This was exhilarating.

And to his right and left, there were others just like him. Explorers, he thought. On a modern ship with complex platforms and instruments, acoustic quieting of engines, working decks and laboratories designed as ultraclean, clean, and temperature controlled. He had spent a week learning the layout of the ship as well as the basic requirements for living and working on a ship.

He was one of three new faculty members of a group of twelve on an oceanography research vessel along with thirty-three students and a crew of twelve. As a faculty member, he had a small private room along a corridor of other rooms—a narrow bed, a desk, a closet, and a bathroom provided privacy and a place for everything he had brought.

The students were young, energetic, and passionate about studying specific areas in maritime research. And the faculty was older versions of their students.

A dozen research topics were on-going—marine biology, ecology, toxicology, biofuels, marine bacteria, wave action, and an assortment of sea life from whales, dolphins, and sharks to microscopic crab and fish he'd never heard—the topics were as broad as they were specific.

Within days, Grissom was happy. The faculty, students, and crew were good, likable people, friendly as well as intelligent. As with any group, he found people who were quiet, studious, boisterous; all hard-working.

The labs on the ship were as high-tech as any place Grissom had ever worked; funding was not an impediment. Most of the physical work required multiple hands—divers in and out of the ocean, sounding devices dropped overboard when marine life was spotted, sampling pods lowered into deep water.

For the first week, before he slept, he sat down and wrote long emails to Sara about his day. Occasionally, he'd send text messages and, as they had decided before he left, they talked at least twice a week. Tried to talk—at times he was standing in knee-deep muck helping students retrieve deep-ocean nudibranches, anemones, hagfish, or other marine life—and he missed her call. Or she missed his for similar reasons—elbow deep in human muck.

His days were so different from anything he'd done previously. So different from the solid house, the fenced garden in Vegas. He thought about Sara; there were women on the ship but none like Sara. He smiled remembering their last conversation when he'd shown her a video he had taken of a humpback whale and a small dolphin playing near the ship.

There were times when everyone on the ship was awe-struck, gathering on deck to watch the world's largest mammals, the blue whale, breach and swim near the ship. Or seeing manta rays launch into the air in an amazing display of aerial acrobatics. White-sided dolphins and Dall's porpoises were commonplace but work slowed when a playful pod followed the ship, surfing in its wake.

Days seem to fly by with each new experience; as a new professor, helping with several on-going projects, he was consumed with work. One night, seeing his laptop closed, he realized he had not checked or sent email in two days—maybe three. After he showered, he fell onto the bed and closed his eyes for a few minutes, only to wake when the ship's bell rang to announce the dining room was open for breakfast. The small window in his room was filled with bright sunlight.

By early afternoon, a storm was developing to the south causing the bow of the ship to rise and fall more than they had experienced since leaving San Diego. A fine mist sprayed over decks and most everyone found a lab, a table, a chair in a corner and, if desired, someone to talk with.

Grissom opened his laptop and found several emails from Sara describing her shift, familiar stories of murder by a family member. She had finished with a light-hearted description of breakfast with Nick and Greg adding "Miss you—hurry home" at the end.

He thought about the times they had eaten together, often with these good friends. He wondered what she had said about him—anything at all? He knew they had laughed and the two men had been the ones to see Sara's shining eyes. He could see her eyes, her smile, her face.

"I wish you were here," he tapped. So much happening, so much to talk about, but he made it short. "I'm staying busy. Glad to hear you had fun with Nick and Greg. Talk to you soon." He hit the send button and closed the laptop.

 _In Vegas_

Sara Sidle lived in a narrow world of crime lab, investigations, courtrooms, and her home. She worked long hours, often off the clock, so when she got home, she could fall into bed with exhaustion and sleep.

She rarely spoke of it; of missing her husband so acutely that her chest ached. Occasionally, she made a joke—or was fondly teased by her co-workers—about her long distance marriage. But they—she and Grissom—were determined. They loved each other; a few months of separation did not diminish that. She waited.

One morning when Grissom had been gone for six weeks, Sara's tea had grown cold and she left the cup on the table. A string of ants had found half of her toast and were busy moving pieces into the gravel. But she did not notice them. She had moved to the back yard, sitting in an old sling chair that had seen better days; her attention was on the rear wall of the house.

Paint was peeling from the flat surface near the roof. She knew it was a recent condition; on second thought, it might have been peeling for quite awhile. And thinking about paint caused her to remember how she and Grissom had talked for days about painting their bedroom in the condo before coming to a decision.

For the house, he had given her complete freedom to select colors and furniture. The thought made her eyes tear-up; had he known how much time he would spend away from the house, she wondered.

A noise chased her thoughts away and wiping her eyes, she looked at the sky. An airplane droned high in the sky. She watched it disappear and heard another noise, nearer to her, footsteps.

It took a minute for her to get out of the chair and by then, the person was standing by her chair.

"I rang the doorbell—knew you were home."

Sara laughed and gave Jim Brass a hug, saying, "What are you doing here?"

"I figured you were lonesome—and we can talk about our problems." His eyebrows rose several times as he smiled and he brought a paper bag into her view. "And I brought food. Muffins from Pastry Palace."

She and Jim could talk—for hours—about his daughter, her mother, her husband. About work and the people at work.

"I'm going to move my mother here," Sara said. "I've almost got it worked out."

They had moved inside, seated at opposite ends of the sofa. Brass appeared to be sleeping; his eyes were closed. His legs stretched in front of him. Sara knew he was resting his eyes as he listened to her talk.

"Not here?" He asked.

With a frown, Sara glanced at him, saying, "Yes, here!" Then, softly, with a shrug, she laughed. "It looks like I'm going to be here and moving her will at least put us in the same place."

Slowly, Brass pulled himself out of his recline. "Sara, you don't mean to move your mother here?" His finger pointed to the floor. "Not into your house?"

Laughing, her head tilting back, she answered, "No! Into a care facility." She named the place. "She's drinking too much—has been an alcoholic for some time according to her social worker who has been trying to get her into a long-term care home for a year." Sara leaned back into the sofa, sighing. "So now, I'll bring her here and hopefully, things will work out."

Jim reached across the sofa and took her hand. "We are quite the pair—you—you know I've always thought..."

Sara squeezed his hand. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

 _Months later, in the Pacific Ocean…_

Gil Grissom looked across the deep blue of the ocean that seemed to roll into eternity. His eyes dropped to the deck below him where several groups had gathered. On this morning, he had walked around the ship and found a chair in an isolated spot, claiming it as his for a while.

This was an "off day"—the term they used when the ship was moving from one area to another and work came to a halt—or nearly so. Most of the students and faculty would enjoy a few hours of camaraderie, away from research projects and catching up on whatever came up, but he chose to be alone. To think.

No longer the newest faculty member on the ship, Grissom had more responsibilities but he also had more time to study, to explore, to discover. But today, he was thinking about his past.

It had been six months and four days since he'd last seen Sara—his soon-to-be ex-wife. All he had to do was transmit the electronic paperwork. An automated signature. He sighed as he closed the laptop. He'd never thought it would happen—not to them, not after all they had been through.

All his professional life, he had asked questions and hunted answers; not just answers, but facts that often landed people in prison. In his own life—in his married life—he had not always found the answers for questions that had led to this—this—formalized separation from a woman he still loved.

The divorce had not been his plan; he didn't think it had been Sara's plan. He leaned back and looked at the vast ocean. His mistress Sara had called it.

She had wanted to try surrogacy for a baby; he had hesitated. Been indecisive. And then he had mentioned buying a small boat. The silence nearly deafened him. He had not bought a boat but he was thinking about it. And thought out loud. Over the phone.

She had said they seemed to be on different paths—he cringed as he thought of his response. After all they had done together; after all they had experienced.

After all the years of loving her—he had said, "Maybe it's in your best interest if we—if we separated—so you can find someone who is on the same path."

He had not meant it; not meant to add that he would file papers so she could move on. Even after all of those words, he'd thought about flying to Vegas for her birthday, but he had not gone. He had reasons he had not made the trip. When he had called her, she'd sounded fine—a little tipsy, perhaps—but it was her birthday. And she'd gone to a spa for a massage and a facial.

A few days later, he had gotten an email. Brief. Saying it was time for each to move forward with their lives and she would not ask anything from him if she could have the house. The condo, empty for months, would be his.

After he had gotten over the shock of his marriage ending—and by phone and email—he had put the condo on the market and sold it for an ungodly amount of money.

When this trip ended, he would buy a boat. He already knew a small group of environmentalists he could join.

Opening his laptop, he clicked several times opening up the document that he'd looked at for days. He really did not know how this had happened; he loved Sara.

He missed her. Had thought about going to Vegas to talk with her, seeing her once more, but he was pretty sure he knew how she felt. Her silence said it all. Had she stopped loving him? Had she moved on—followed his words?

Someone had once said most relationships were over before they end. The decision was his.

His hand drifted over the keyboard. Scrolling down to the end of the document, his finger lingered for a long moment before he tapped the key.

It was done.

A/N: _Moving on-more coming soon! We appreciate your comments and reviews!_


	25. Chapter 25

_A short chapter...enjoy!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 25**

Sara and Nick had gravitated to the long garden bench in Sara's back yard, sitting in comfortable silence on opposite ends after being banished from the house. They heard the singing of insects hiding in plants and the low sounds of music from the house; night traffic in the distance murmured as an unnoticed backdrop.

Finally, Nick spoke. "I've been patient," he said. "It's been—what? A year since you told us about you and Grissom. Now you need to tell me about it." He had visited in her home to see the gradual disappearance of photographs; tonight, he'd noticed only two remaining pictures of Gil Grissom, one in a group that included Warrick Brown and another of Sara and her-then-husband in Costa Rica.

When Sara turned to face him, even in the dark, he knew the expression on her face.

He added, "I've been worried about you. You don't talk about—about any of it."

They had finished dinner; not a party, but a gathering of friends. Greg and Morgan had left first; everyone pretended the two were just friends. Jim Brass had insisted on cleaning up and Nick could see the man moving around in Sara's house, gathering plates, cups, and glasses; taking his time after sending the two of them outside.

A long moment passed as Nick waited and Sara seemed to stare straight ahead. He almost gave up, brushing off his query by changing the subject.

"He didn't come home."

Her voice was so quiet. But Nick had the sense to remain silent.

She sighed. "I waited. I honestly thought he'd come home—even after we had a disagreement—I thought he'd come back."

She did not mention that she'd planned, counted on him returning, bought new clothes, a dress, told him where she planned to celebrate her birthday. She thought he would walk in, smiling, ready to embrace her, return to their marriage. But it had all been a fairy tale. She had imagined picking up where they left off—talking, enjoying each other, drinking coffee together—as if nothing had happened.

Nick said, quietly, "We didn't know. You—you've always been so—so quiet about—everything."

He heard a quiet laugh. "I know. Like all of us have a life outside of work."

With a gruff chuckle, he said, "No, I don't. I think Greg might. I walk my dog and sleep."

"You watch ball games," Sara said with a laugh. "Sometimes I watch ball games." Her hand raised and pointed at the house. "I'm learning to play the piano—I'm pretty bad, but I'm learning."

Nick realized she had changed the subject. Keeping his voice quiet, he asked, "Do you know where he is? I mean—does he ever come back to Vegas?" And he had to wait for an answer—three minutes passed.

"I don't. We haven't talked much—not at all in months." Another quiet, and sad, laugh. "He gave me an address in LA—Venice—where his mother lived."

"Before she moved here?"

Sara nodded. "Betty never sold it—rented it for years. Beautiful place on a canal with an apartment on the top floor—that's where I sent some of his things."

"So what's he doing? Do you know?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "He's on a ship somewhere. Saving the planet—he sent a card around Christmas. It came from Tokyo," she made another sad laugh. "Once we were going to meet in Tokyo, but things happened—we never got there"

Her hand covered her mouth and even in the dim light, Nick saw her hand tremble. She looked away from the house, at nothing but darkness in a corner of the yard.

They sat together as minutes passed; neither said anything and he knew the subject of Sara's husband—former husband—was closed. In a while, Brass called from the terrace, motioning with a glass in his hand for them to come and they did.

Nick Stokes knew he was no expert on love; it had been years since he'd had two dates with the same woman. But he thought he knew when someone was still in love and hearing Sara's words, he knew. Sara was still in love with a man who had not come home.

 _Grissom_ …

It grew cool over the ocean. The moon was high in the sky casting a glow that reflected brightness into the small room. The slow movement of the ship played with the moonlight to create a surreal effect that usually made for a sense of calm.

Yet, Grissom lay on his bed and stared at the pale sky through the open window; a deep sadness had settled on him after an exhausting day. He knew human cruelty from his career in crime investigation but what he'd seen for two days had been as callous as anything he had experienced in law enforcement. And it had affected him in an unexpected way.

Seventy-one sharks had been cut and left to die. Missing their fins; they had counted sharks of all sizes for two days, marking each one with spray paint as they maneuvered the two zodiacs along an area stretching for twenty miles. Somewhere in the vast ocean, a ship carried the fins, valued at hundreds of dollars each, destined for soup. Shark fin soup.

Grissom found it unbelievable—millions of sharks killed for only the fin to prepare an expensive soup for a few people. Most of the sharks were left alive, to drown; the fin being the most valuable and easily transported. Most of the ones he had seen had been dead, choked on blood, thrown back into the ocean. All he had seen in the months at sea—turtles dead from swallowing plastic bags, dolphins mangled in lines, whales scarred by giant hooks—could not compare to the mass destruction of the sharks.

During dinner, the conversation had been only of sharks—from the Jersey Shore attacks to the U.S.S. Indianapolis to Peter Benchley's _Jaws_ , the book and the movie. Afterwards, a small group had talked about environmental groups—Greenpeace, Sea Shepherd, The Cousteau Society were well-known. Black Fish and Shark Savers were mentioned, less known and using methods that did not always conform to global rules.

Tossing back his bedcovers, Grissom knew he would not sleep. He got up, took a few short strides to the bathroom, and was back at the small desk in minutes powering up his laptop.

The screen brightened with a photograph a dark-haired woman, a broad smile across the face of the woman he loved. He had not heard her voice in over a year; a few emails had ended their marriage. Rubbing his eyes, he sighed. At times, he regretted what he had done but—he was still puzzled by how quickly their marriage had seemed to fall apart. Shaking his head, he decided he would not think about it, not Sara, not their marriage, not the years—all the times—they had enjoyed together.

Perhaps, he thought, it was time he made another change. This ship was safe, he knew. On-going research projects, dedicated scientists, state-of-the-art equipment. What did he have to gain—or lose—by taking another direction? He scrolled past the well-known environmental organizations and finally clicked on a name mentioned during the dinner discussion.

On the website, he found a few photographs and little else. At the bottom, he clicked on 'contact us' and sent his request.

He had spent months on several ships, moving up in rank as he acquired experience; he was good at mentoring, advising the students—and he'd found he enjoyed living on a ship. He had learned from the ship's engineer how the diesel engines operated, had learned from the captain how to navigate charts and plot a course.

He'd also taken up drawing during his hours of leisure, something he had not done since college. He drew flowers, trees, and animals and amused himself for hours. He would create creatures of his imagination or set a whale in a flower bed sprouting flower petals. He did it for amusement, filling page after page with pencil sketches.

Checking out more websites, he sent emails with similar requests to several based along the California coast. He could do more; staying safe was no longer his option.

And now, he thought, he was ready to move on.

 _A/N: And we are moving forward. More to come-thank you for staying with us! A special thanks to those who review._


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: A new-long-chapter! Enjoy!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 26**

Gil Grissom's life had been given a new purpose. He had been a dedicated criminalist for years and upon his retirement, he had found other work where he had been competent—enjoyed seeing new places and meeting new people with similar interests.

Then, on a trip with his wife and mother, he'd found another passion.

Seven months ago, he had left a well-funded oceanography organization that had been his introduction to a life on the ocean and joined another. Sea Shepherd had assigned him to the Columbia River watching and recording sea lions. He'd laughed at first, thought the job was child's play after what he been doing for decades.

But he went to Astoria, Oregon, rented a small apartment and waited. Sea lions did what sea lions did and when they got in the path of salmon fishermen, they were shot, netted, hooked, drowned—killed by any means—all for eating salmon. He was the watcher, the cameraman, the reporter—and he called for help when needed.

He also learned a few underhanded and circuitous methods of achieving desired results— quick ways to disable engines, create smoke bombs, basic science pranks involving eggs, baking soda, and ketchup—all in the name of slowing the slaughter of endangered animals.

After several months, he surprised himself by buying a boat; it made his work easier if he could disguise himself as a fisherman. Or at least a man in a work-weary vessel. And it had an ocean-rated engine and a small cabin with a bed and a head.

During the days of negotiating the purchase, he was surprised to get an email from Sara. Briefly asking how he was doing and in the exchange that followed she asked about his boat. In the legalese of becoming a boat owner, his ex-wife had received notice of the purchase through a credit check of a long-forgotten joint bank account. Their messages were cordial but distant, almost formal between two people who had once been intimately involved.

With a few sentences, she told him about work. In her words, he saw what she had become—a professional, a woman with self-confidence and courage and responsibility.

Later, he did not sleep well. He looked at his phone several times, thinking he would call Sara. He did not but thought about the time when he had been loved. How had he lived so richly and broken it in so many pieces. For days, his chest felt heavy with memories. His fingers reached for his seldom used cell phone; he did not—could not—tap Sara's name.

Remaining on the Columbia River for two more months, he chose to leave the Sea Shepherd's organization at the end of his commitment. Instead, he left Astoria in his boat, traveling along the coast line as he headed to California, to the house his mother had owned, uncertain of what he would do once he arrived in Los Angeles.

The house had been purchased while he was in college so it had never felt like home to him. But she'd made a good investment, improving the building as the area became a sought-after historic district. Having an exceptional business sense, she had opened an art gallery and lived upstairs. When she decided to move to Vegas, she had leased it.

Now, it was his home address—the art gallery was still there. His living space was the second floor, almost empty of anything personal, stacks of boxes he had not opened in two years.

Somewhere in northern California, in a small coastal town, he tied his boat to the public dock and fell into a conversation with a couple in the next boat. During the next few hours, he learned of a quasi-organization with a chief goal of cleaning up the coastline. Along with their cleaning efforts, they watched for illegal activities—everything from dumping of polluting garbage and oils, fishing in protected areas, destruction of habitat, and illegal fishing.

"We don't break laws," the woman explained. "We help enforce—call the Coast Guard or harbormaster or fish and wildlife."

"The seas are the old 'wild wild west' with little to no real law enforcement," the man added. "If we see something, we can radio for help using codes and anyone else in the group who is nearby will head in our direction."

Grissom was interested. A loose knit group along the coast, no long-term obligation; he got a name and a telephone number before the couple sailed out of the harbor.

Within a few weeks, he realized how much trash washed ashore—and realized how easy it was to overfish, to destroy habitat, dump trash, and take whatever one wanted from the ocean. Easing into a community of covert environmentalists was not as difficult as he would have thought. Most were retired from other professions; they did what they claimed—cleaned the coast—and the surreptitious activities passed unnoticed all along the coast.

It was several months before Grissom grasped that their pursuits were barely noticed because so much illegal activity was happening. The major ports were understaffed; the Coast Guard worked continually saving human lives. Drug trafficking took resources that could have been available for enforcing wildlife laws.

After following and documenting a bloody trail of dying sharks, fins removed, he made the decision to stay with a fishing trawler entering the port of San Diego. After docking within yards of the boat, he watched as several men washed down the deck and added bags of ice to a large cooler.

No fish appeared. The 'catch' had been the left at sea. The fins had to be in the cooler, he thought, waiting for delivery.

As night came, Grissom dressed in dark clothes and crept aboard the vacated boat. Later, he realized he must have tripped an alarm; otherwise, there was no way that port authority patrolmen and San Diego policemen would have showed up in such force.

He was almost certain the charges against him would disappear. Trespassing was a misdemeanor that meant a monetary fine; he'd be free to go before the sun set. But he was stuck in place while things played out.

The patrolman who ran his fingerprints returned, affirming his name, and in a few minutes, a very surprised Grissom was talking to Nick Stokes.

"I'm coming down there, man! Don't go anywhere!"

Not that Grissom could go anywhere, so he remained leaning against a police car until Nick showed up.

Within minutes, he was no longer charged with trespassing, had his boat released, and was on his way to breakfast with the director of the San Diego Crime Lab—who had not stop talking since arriving at the dock.

Nick asked so many questions without pausing for an answer that Grissom had ceased giving any response for at least ten minutes. When the vehicle stopped in front of a small diner, Nick said, "You haven't said a word! I'm talking too much—you need to tell me what you've been doing."

The younger man got out of the car; Grissom hesitated a few seconds thinking it might have been better to remain at the dock.

Nick was talking, "This is a lot like Frank's—you know what happened at Frank's, right?" When Grissom looked confused, Nick continued, "It was a mess. Can't believe he killed so many—and then." Nick paused to open the door, saw the look on Grissom's face, and shrugged, saying, "Under the bridge, right. The food is good here."

They found an empty booth next to the windows and Nick flirted with a young waitress for a few minutes before she brought coffee. Nick ordered the daily special; Grissom did the same.

"Well, now it's your turn," Nick said with a grin. "Tell me—in reverse—how'd you get to a fishing dock in San Diego? Trespassing—and just happen to find shark fins!"

Grissom described his clean-up efforts and his decision to follow the fishing boat into the harbor without revealing his true mission. "They left a trail of dead sharks—I thought I'd see what they were up too—and even I know about shark fin soup." He quickly turned to describing cleaning up the coast; it took him several minutes.

When their plates arrived, both men tucked into eggs, toast, bacon, and potatoes.

"I—ah—I guess you are no longer a vegetarian." Nick pointed his fork at the bacon on Grissom's plate

"No."

"Do you—do you ever hear from Sara?"

"No—not in a while," Grissom said and then took a bite of toast.

Nick waved the fork, saying, "She's doing good, you know. D.B. is leaving Vegas and Sara's going for the director job."

Grissom almost dropped his fork. His eyes came up and met Nick's. He had never thought about Sara as director of the lab. Quickly covering his surprise, he said, "She—she—she'll be good." He managed to get the words out but he felt as if a baseball had hit his chest.

"Yeah," Nick calmly spread his toast with jam, no longer looking at Grissom. "They've had a rough patch. Julie Finley—did you know her?"

Grissom shook his head.

"She died several months ago—it hit D.B. hard. Then some other things—personal stuff—happened and he decided it was time to move on. Sara will be good—she knows everyone—works all the time anyway."

Popping a piece of toast in his mouth, Nick chewed slowly, swallowed, and said, "It's a shame about you two. I always thought—well, I guess I thought you and Sara were together for the long haul."

With a slight shrug, Grissom forked eggs into his mouth.

Nick didn't take—or refused to take—the hint. He said, "Sara is such a good person." He glanced at Grissom. "She told me you didn't come home—she thought you'd be there for her birthday." His fork pointed at Grissom. "Did you really break up over the phone?"

Again, Grissom shrugged. He should have stayed on the dock.

"Do you know her mother died?"

This did shock Grissom. "No, I—I haven't heard from her in months. When?"

"Months ago—quietly in her sleep. You know how Sara is—she didn't say much about it."

Grissom desperately wanted to change the subject. He asked, "Tell me about your job—what happens in San Diego?"

As they finished breakfast, Nick talked and Grissom made appropriate noises in response. Nick paid the bill, asking, "Do you need anything? Supplies or—or whatever you take with you."

"No—no, I'm good." He pointed northward, saying, "I'll head back up the coast."

Nick chuckled. "Don't tell me you live on that boat all the time."

Grissom answered, "No, I have a place—my mother's old place—in LA. Gives me a place to stretch out in bad weather."

They got in Nick's vehicle and drove the few miles to the dock. Neither man said anything until the car stopped and Grissom opened the car's door. Nick sighed and shoved the gear shift to 'Park', turning to face Grissom.

"Before you leave—I want to say how much I appreciate all you did—teaching me how to work. I do appreciate it."

Grissom nodded.

"But—after working for you—with Sara—I've got to say this," he hesitated, wiped his face and turned away from Grissom before continuing. "Leaving her is the absolute worst thing you've ever done—you two should have talked—should talk." His head shook slowly. "I don't know—will probably never have—what you two had together." He laughed, a sad, uncharacteristic sound. "You appear to be fine—doing fine. Found something new—but Sara—Sara will always hold on to what you had. I think she stays in Vegas hoping you'll return one day."

Grissom didn't know what to say—did not want to talk about Sara and what they had. Nick could not know how deeply it hurt to hear about Sara.

He said, "I appreciate you, Nick. You were—you were always what I wished I was." He made to get out of the car.

What Nick said next caused him to turn, dumbfounded, one foot out of the car. He asked, "What?"

"She owns the condo—rents it to Greg."

Leaning into the seat, Grissom closed his eyes. The quick sale, the selling price matching the list price; he never suspected. Trying to remember, he realized he had never seen a name for the buyer, all the paperwork had been done electronically.

Managing several breaths, he said, "I didn't know. She—she wanted the house—why didn't she tell me she wanted the condo?"

"She thought you needed the money."

Grissom's hand covered his mouth for a long moment before he said, "I've been such a fool. Left the best part of my life to—to—I don't know what I wanted—running away from failure, I think."

"Failure? You've never failed, man! You are the most successful person I know! How can you think that?"

He could not tell Nick everything; instead, he said, "There were things I should have done—did not do because I was stubborn. I—I—we got crossed up and—and…"

"Well, you've both got time, you know. Make things right." Nick twisted to grab his phone. "Let me check this—it's about to rattle out of the holder." Checking the screen, he grinned. "Speaking of," he held the phone for Grissom to see, "Sara."

Quickly, Grissom shook his head. "I'm not here, please."

Nodding his head, Nick's finger touched the phone. "Hey, Sara!"

Grissom could hear her voice but words were indistinct; he knew she was animated, agitated about something. In a few seconds, Nick was asking her to stop—slow down.

He said, "Let me put you on speaker—I'm in the car."

With a push of a button, Sara's voice filled the car. Grissom did not realize the breath he took or that he closed his eyes as his head fell against the head rest of the seat. The voice he'd heard for years, still heard in his dreams, seemed to wrap around his chest, descend into his body and wake up cells he thought long dead.

It took a minute for him to actually comprehend what she was saying and when he did, he saw that Nick was leaning toward her voice. They listened, intently, as Sara related an unbelievable story.

"We need help, Nick. I need help! Catherine is coming, but she won't get here until late tomorrow. It's already on national news—I thought—hope—you can come today."

Quickly, Nick assured her he would make arrangements to be on the next direct flight. Looking at Grissom, he said, "I might bring someone to help."

Sara replied, "At this point, we're going to need all the help we can get."

 _A/N: Covers a lot of time! It's Sara calling Nick-so what's happening? Our story deviates from the CSI Finale-Enjoy and thanks for reading!_


	27. Chapter 27

_A new-short chapter; learning more about what event gets Grissom back to Vegas!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 27**

Nick did not give Gil Grissom much choice. Leave his boat in San Diego under the watchful eyes of harbor police, pack a bag, and join him on the trip to Vegas—no threat, Nick would never do that to a man he'd admired for years—more of a tiger team reference. And that confused Grissom. But what they'd heard from Sara was enough to make both men move swiftly and in a little more than an hour, they were climbing stairs to a jet bridge for a direct flight.

Grissom had not had much time to think about seeing Sara again, but once in the air, separated by several rows from Nick Stokes, he could think. He got as far as hearing again Sara's words; he wanted to listen, to breathe in, and let her voice fill him.

There was so much he wanted to say to her; to see her long legs, her hair in the sunlight, the quiver of joy and goodness in her dark eyes. From his memories, he thought of all the love and life they had at one time. And, given another chance, he'd place his life in her hands again. He had never stopped loving her.

With that thought, he fell asleep, exhaustion and sleep held him until a hand touched his shoulder to wake him as the plane descended into the brilliant sunshine that blazed across the alluvial valley of Las Vegas and much of Clark County.

And tragedy. Nick had tried to catch him up on who was working where; the once familiar names and faces were blurred ghosts as Grissom tried to remember people he had once worked with on a daily basis. These were good people, diligent and dedicated in their work; none deserved the outcome of what could be a disaster for law enforcement in Las Vegas.

The two men made an easy exit the same way they had boarded the plane—a staircase and a waiting patrol car. In minutes, they were heading along the Strip. Grissom recognized some changes including a dazzling casino and hotel where Sam Braun's place had once stood.

Before he could say anything, Nick pointed to it saying, "That's where Jim Brass works now—Catherine is his boss."

This was a double surprise. Grissom said, "I thought Catherine was with the FBI."

Chuckling, Nick said, "She is but she's the major stockholder for that place. When Jim left, she put him in charge of security. Remember Lindsay? Catherine's little girl is an accountant now—works there."

While the two men talked about Lindsay, remembering her as a child, the policeman pulled to a stop, waiting while street barricades were removed before the car could get to the police department. No longer at separate addresses, the lab was now adjunct to the new law enforcement district building, all glass and steel, sunshades, and solar panels..

"Looks like the TV trucks expect something to happen," said Nick as they pulled into the parking deck.

During the drive, he had sent and received several text messages. He said, "We're expected in the Sheriff's conference room."

In a low voice, Grissom asked, "Does she know?"

Shaking his head, Nick said, "I—I thought it would be better to surprise her."

Entering the building, Grissom recognized no familiar faces; not only had the building changed, so had the employees. And he noticed the silence—suddenly, he remembered how quiet the lab had been when Warrick Brown had been killed.

When they arrived at the conference room, Nick hung back on the pretext of greeting a young woman in the hallway. Four or five people were in the room; Sara, obviously in charge, was standing at the end of a long table. He said nothing but waited at the door until he was noticed by one of the men at the table.

No longer a spiky-haired kid, Greg Sanders looked at him in shocked surprise and just as quickly, the young man glanced at Sara.

And now, he looked at Sara. A face he knew and loved. Awestruck, Grissom saw a person who seemed completely unchanged in the months it had been since he'd seen her. Yet, she had changed. Confidence in her posture and voice sent a solemn message to the group around the table.

She sensed his presence—or had noticed a glance from Greg—and turned toward the door where he stood. She blinked, slowly, and then frowned, puzzled.

The air seemed to change around them; Grissom caught movement in his peripheral vision but kept his eyes on Sara. Her hand touched the table.

"Gil," she whispered almost inaudibly.

The room began to spin around him; his vision blurred. His stomach contracted; behind his eyes something burned. By the time he had taken three steps, he had control of his emotions, willed the dizziness out of his head, forced his stomach to be calm.

Before he reached the table, he managed to say "I've come to help."

Minutes passed as they stood a few feet apart. Sara had the benefit of the table; her hand gripped its edge.

Finally, Grissom placed his bag on the floor. In a controlled, artificial sounding voice, he managed to say, "I—I was in San Diego with Nick—long story—but he—he thought I might be useful."

Sara extended her hand, saying, "I'm glad you did—we—as you've heard—we are going to need a lot of help."

Taking her hand, he noticed her expression did not change. He understood and appreciated the self-confidence that she demonstrated yet he had imagined their reunion differently. Now, he held her hand for a long moment. Another surprise; she stepped away from the table and embraced him. Both arms around his shoulders—his breathing stopped as she quickly placed a kiss on his cheek.

Just as quickly, she withdrew, backed away, and said, "Did Nick come? Do you know what's happened?"

Nodding, he murmured, "Yes." Turning, he realized they were alone. And the doors to the room had been closed. "Sara," he whispered, "I need to—to…"

Her raised hands, splayed in front of him, stopped his words.

She said, "I—I'm sure there…" She shook her head. "We—we can talk at some other time." A quick flash of a smile. "You can tell me—you can tell me about your life." Another brief smile, "and I'd like to—to hear—actually, it'll be like—like old times." She licked her lips and seemed to notice for the first time they were alone.

"Right now, we need to work."

He said, "Has Hodges been found?" Quickly adding, "How is Conrad?"

"David hasn't been found—we think he's still in the city. Conrad is alive." Shaking her head, she added, "Early prognosis is not good—not for a complete recovery."

She indicated a chair next to hers and both sat down.

Grissom asked, "Any idea what caused it?"

A sad smile turned into a cynical grimace across Sara's face. "Your old friend might be involved." Her eyes met his briefly before turning to a stack of files on the table. She pulled one folder out and opened it.

Immediately, he recognized the face. He said, "Heather?" Confusion came before he grasped the indication. "Conrad was seeing Heather? Hodges?"

Sara said, "We think David was also a client—a customer—whatever Heather calls them now."

"Does she still have her therapy office?"

Sara shook her head. "Not for a while—she—she runs a much smaller business than Lady Heather's back in the day. From what I understand, she's a 'life coach' or something. She's the one who call 9-1-1 and told us it was David Hodges." With a scoff, she continued, "As always—Heather cooperates with law enforcement."

"Where do we start? And what happened to everyone?" Grissom looked around at the empty room.

At his comment, Sara laughed. "I think they thought we might actually have a fight."

Grissom grunted and then chuckled. "We never fight."

Sara was still smiling as she sent a text message to Greg and a few seconds later, the room filled with a dozen people.

Grissom watched as Sara handed out assignments and he understood the wide-ranging ramifications of what David Hodges had done. Not only had he shot the sheriff in what was thought to be a lover's triangle quarrel, he had added a level of damage in an attempt to destroy the crime lab.

According to a video he had sent to a local television station, any outstanding cases in Clark County had been compromised—or at least had been claimed to be compromised—by long-time lab employee, David Hodges. The news department had not aired the message.

Most of the people in the room would be checking lab work on those cases. It was a massive undertaking and as soon as Sara had assigned them to different tasks, they left the room.

Greg Sanders and two others were sent to Hodges' home.

"I'm going to Heather Kessler's-a team has been there for hours," Sara said as she looked at Grissom. Turning to Nick, she said, "If you would supervise the lab," she handed a thick folder to him. "These are all the open cases going back three months." She let out a long, slow breath, adding, "I cannot believe he would do something like this."

Turning to Grissom, Sara said, "I have no idea what your relationship is with Heather now—I've never know, have I? But you can go with me—maybe she'll talk to you without all of the pretense and posturing I got from her several years ago."

Grissom said nothing, but followed Sara out of the room, along a hallway, and into the lab section of the building. He had always been proud of the lab when he worked there. Seeing it in controlled chaos—people were calmly working, Nick was making the rounds of each work area—gave him hope that the lab would be spared.

 _A/N: Heather, Hodges, Ecklie-who would have thought!-and more to come! Thank you and a special thanks to those who comment!_


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Another new chapter. Thank you for reading-and thanks to those who take time to review!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 28**

Sara drove.

Grissom had always known she was the best driver on the team and he watched and listened, fascinated by the woman he had married, and captivated by her voice as she spoke. Words tumbled out in a hurried clip; after all these months, he knew she was irritated. With him.

Hiding a smile, he kept quiet and let her talk—about the lab, about Ecklie, about Hodges.

Sara was a master at hiding her anger; angry that Nick would bring Gil Grissom to Vegas without telling her. She was angry that he—Grissom—could be so cool and collected, but, of course, he'd had several hours to get prepared while she'd had minutes—no, seconds, from the time she had noticed Greg's quick glance and had turned to see him standing in the doorway.

So she talked. Probably didn't make sense; she'd over-talked to him for years. And he did not even try to say anything. Nothing! After—after nearly two years of silence, he had nothing to say. Mentally, she was beating herself for asking him to come with her—stupid move—when he could have remained at the lab and worked with Nick.

Her brain was racing so fast she drove past the street and had to make a couple of right turns to get back to the address. She pulled to a stop behind two patrol cars, an unmarked car, and a crime scene vehicle. The search warrant had been obtained hours ago; a detective had been at the house within minutes of the emergency call.

As Sara got out, she realized she could not remember all she had said to Grissom while driving. Damn the man, she thought. Her mind was scrambled eggs.

He had gotten out of the vehicle and waited for her. Approaching the porch, Sara decided she needed to say something.

She said, "Okay, before we go in—Heather's been with Detective Crawford—he and I don't always see eye-to-eye." Pausing, she shook her head wondering why she had said that, before continuing. "She was shaken up—but—but you've seen her that way before—so." She was trying to find something reasonable to say, "I—I—I just want to acknowledge that we haven't been in much contact—well, actually, we haven't had any contact for—for—nearly two years. I—I stayed here—you are doing your—your Paul Watson thing. I get it—things change. We went our separate ways. You surprised me by returning—and—and I thank you for coming. As a—as a consultant, I think—whatever it is—we need to be professional, to present a unified front."

Her hand waved in front of her face. "Put our game faces on—and see if we can get this—this wrapped up." Quickly, a smile flashed across her face. A forced smile.

Shuffling his stance, jamming hands in his pockets, Grissom was surprised at the emotions he had experienced since seeing Sara. He said, "Seeing you again left me a little speechless."

Sara rolled her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. "Okay," she said as she pressed the door bell, "let's do this."

Detective Crawford opened the door and, if he was surprised to see Grissom, he did not voice it. Instead, he pointed toward the back of the house and walked to a window, saying, "She's outside with her granddaughter."

"Learn anything useful?" Sara asked.

The detective shook his head. "Nothing else other than what she told first responders. The sheriff came every week—same time—worked out in her gym. Says she is his life coach and they spend an hour or so every week working on his goals and—and—what the heck is a life coach?"

Outside, in a beautifully landscaped garden with roses climbing on trellises and flower beds bordering a gravel path, Grissom could see Heather Kessler and he smiled.

Standing next to Grissom, Sara glanced at Heather and then looked at Grissom. He was smiling. With a sharp inhale and an eye roll, she turned to Crawford.

"Grissom has a history with Heather Kessler so maybe he can get something more from her." Turning back to Grissom, she added, "Remember, you are a consultant—I—we want to hear whatever she has to say."

She headed toward a door to the backyard and had to wait for the two men to catch up. "Where is this gym?"

Crawford waved a thumb in the opposite direction. When Grissom reached the door, Sara opened it and waved him through; she followed, thinking she wasn't going to miss this reunion.

Of course, the woman appeared to be perfectly dressed, Sara thought; make-up in place, wearing a tight black sweater, a lacy choker necklace around her neck, and a skirt so tight Sara wondered how Heather managed to move in it. The little girl was pretty, wearing a blue and white striped dress, as she picked flowers.

When Heather noticed three people on her porch, she seemed rooted to the path when she saw Grissom. Her mouth dropped open in surprise and then quickly closed.

Sara, exasperated, rolled her eyes again and stepped off the porch.

Heather's response was to say, "Grissom?" Slowly, she walked toward them, stopping a few feet away, and saying, "Sara—I know why you are here." She smiled. "I am surprised to see both of you—here—together."

"Hello, Heather."

Sara managed to suppress a groan as Grissom stepped forward, arms outstretched, and hugged the woman. Quickly deciding she didn't want to observe whatever was going too happened between the two, she turned, asking, "How do I get to the gym?"

Detective Crawford offered to show her the way.

"No, stay here. I'll find it."

A few minutes later, she opened the door to a modern gym in the basement of the house, walls painted a pale blue, reflecting the crystal clear water of a small pool. The ceiling was painted like brilliant blue with puffy white clouds; it looked familiar and then she remembered one of the casinos had a similar painted landscape.

On the left side of the pool, several crime scene investigators were working. Day shift had taken the case because David Hodges had worked primarily in the night-shift lab. One looked up and waved Sara under the tape.

"We're almost finished," she said.

Sara asked for a review of their findings and learned a few new discoveries. A ten pound weight had been used for the first blow, then a gun. Heather Kessler had been near enough to be covered with blood splatter—her clothes had been collected and sent to the lab.

She followed the investigator as they walked through a twisting turning hallway to an exit at the back of the house. Several passages made right or left turns to small rooms; Sara did not want to think about what those rooms had been used for in the past.

"We think the blood drops are all from the Sheriff. Hodges—I mean, the perpetrator, picked up the weight and carried it to the door but we've collected samples from the trail."

Sara glanced back toward the gym and asked, "Would you know how to find your way out? It appears he ran in a direct path to the outside door."

The investigator nodded, saying nothing.

"You think he knew the way?"

Nodding, the younger woman said, "We talked about that—nothing indicates he went into any other hall—and you see what a maze it is."

Sara opened the door and stepped outside. She said, "His car has been found on the Strip—in one of the parking garages."

"He's created chaos, that's for sure." The investigator hesitated a few minutes before adding, "We all heard you were going for the director's job—you'll make a great boss—everyone's behind you."

Sara didn't know what to say. She had not announced her plans but since she'd been put in charge of this case, perhaps everyone assumed she'd be the next director. Saying, "thank you. I appreciate that." Softly, she laughed, saying, "This case is a trial by fire."

"And it looks like we'll need a new sheriff, too."

Updates on Sheriff Ecklie were continuing to come out, sent as text messages to all in law enforcement. Prognosis was not good.

Agreeing with her, Sara headed outside and to the garden, hoping Grissom had managed to learn something from Heather. She was standing in a service driveway and, thinking it was easier to find an opening in the head-high hedge than to go around the front of the house, she walked until she found an opening. Not a real opening, but a place where the shrubs parted enough to let her slip through.

And then she realized she was in some kind of hedge-maze. She hated those things; taking ten steps in one direction, she walked into a dead-end, an open area with a gazebo. She reversed and found a right turn which she followed to a left turn, and realized it was a simple maze in curving rows with a well-tended grass path. She got to the third row and heard voices—primarily the soft voice of her ex-husband.

With the wall of shrubs between them, she stopped and listened to Grissom's words. He wasn't asking questions; he wasn't talking about the case. He was talking about…

"I've missed her every day since I left Vegas—I don't know why I left—she's the best person I'll ever know."

"You love her."

Sara, intently listening, tried to determine if Heather had asked a question.

Grissom said, "I'll always love her—for as long as I live."

Heather made a soft laugh. "Tell her, Gil!"

"Oh, no—I couldn't do that—not after all this time. She's—she's moved on. Look at her—she's ready to be the next director."

"Do you really want to live alone for the rest of your life," said Heather.

 _A/N: Another chapter soon._


	29. Chapter 29

_**A/N: Moving forward with a new chapter-short one. More coming soon!**_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 29**

The smell of flowers, the hum of insects, the sounds of distant traffic rolled into a hazy miasma that seemed to turn Sara's surroundings into a spiteful quagmire. Taking deep breaths, slowly turning in a circle several times, she gained control of her emotions. While anger was pushed down, she was still irritated.

She could not believe her ears; he had not said one hundred words to her, yet he was telling Heather Kessler who he loved. Anger flared again so quickly it caused her ears to buzz. Quickly, she took several steps away from the hedge. On purpose, and in anger, she grabbed a flowering shrub and broke a limb, raking it against other hedge plants to noisily announce her presence.

By the time she turned the next corner, her temper had cooled a bit; she had managed to plaster a fake smile on her face as she approached Grissom and Heather who were standing near the entrance to the maze.

In an unruffled purr, Heather greeted her, saying, "You've found our maze." Then with a puzzled look, she asked, "How did you enter? The maze ends at the pergola."

Brusquely, Sara said, "I left the gym and found an opening in the hedge. Might want to get your gardener to plant a few more bushes." Pointing to the house, she said, "Hodges left a blood trail—fairly certain it's Ecklie's blood as he left by the back door—the one that opens to the—the service driveway. How did he know to leave the gym that way?"

Grissom took a step toward her, saying, "Heather told me that Hodges had been here once—to inquire about hiring her as a life coach. She showed him around the gym."

His response for Heather irritated Sara but she held her frustration as her phone chirped with an incoming message.

In the time Sara had been away, Grissom had learned little, but enough, from Heather Kessler—she was shocked, surprised, and confused by the attack on Conrad Ecklie who was no newcomer to her business. Grissom had known for years that Conrad was a 'customer' of Lady Heather's Dominion—one of dozens of politically-connected patrons who frequented her business.

Long ago, Grissom had decided he would be no customer or client, but a friend to a woman who had an unusual ability to observe and clarify a culture that society ignored. As a friend, he believed he had helped Heather as she had helped him. And yet, for some unexplainable reason, he did not discuss Heather with the woman he loved.

When his ex-wife came around the hedge-row, he knew she wasn't happy; he knew there was animosity between the two women. Long-standing animosity; he decided to ignore their petty little exchange and stepped between them. And then thankful to hear Sara's phone chime.

"We've got to go," Sara said after reading the message. She pocketed the phone, adding, "This is not a good thing—we've all been called in."

Grissom turned to Heather, thanking her and adding, "It was good to see Alison again."

Heather's response was a slight nod of her head, saying, "I'm sure we'll talk soon."

Sara walked passed both of them to Detective Crawford. She said, "Can we leave the patrolmen here? Crime scene guys are almost finished and now the undersheriff wants to talk."

Crawford nodded, saying, "Sara—we—we haven't always seen eye-to-eye, but I hope you get the director's job. You're the best person for it."

Grissom had caught up and over heard the conversation; he followed Sara to her vehicle.

As they buckled up, he asked, "What's going on?"

Sara did not look at him as she cranked the vehicle and drove away. She said, "It's probably not good." She pulled into traffic and asked, "What did you learn from Heather? Other than she showed Hodges around? The scene was bloody."

Grissom settled in for the ride. "She seems to be as confused as everyone else. Hodges came in—from upstairs—and didn't say anything until he was a few feet away. Shouted something like 'you did this!' and threw a weight at Conrad. Before Heather or Conrad could do or say anything, Hodges pulled a gun and shot Conrad and then ran out the back of the gym."

They speculated on what Hodges could have meant with his words until Sara turned into the parking garage. If possible, more media trucks had arrived; cameras and reporters were jammed into an area at the end of the street.

Inside the building, he followed Sara and by the grim looks on faces, he knew the news could not be good.

Suddenly, around a corner, he and Sara almost collided with a familiar face. Nick and Greg were on either side of the woman.

It took all of them a few seconds to recover their surprise as Catherine Willows hugged and air-kissed and hugged both of them again.

"Who would have ever thought we would be together—because of…" Catherine's arms waved in all directions. "Look at us!" Her eyes zeroed in on Grissom. "And where on earth have you been? Last I heard you were—were sailing around an ocean!" She turned to Sara, grabbed her by the shoulders, saying, "And you! Sara Sidle, Director of the Crime Lab! Wow!"

Catherine continued talking, giving no one else time to respond with more than a word or two, as the five made their way along the hallway; none noticed the parting of people, some staring in surprise while others appeared puzzled by this group. A few had been in the lab for years while others had only heard of the legendary Gil Grissom and the renowned Catherine Willows.

Entering a large auditorium, the group found seats near the front. The dais remained vacant until the room was filled and then the county commissioners entered. Solemn faces on all as they proceeded to the podium, making a semi-circle around one of the undersheriffs.

Quickly, a somber greeting was given and in a concise announcement, everyone learned what most had deducted. Conrad Ecklie had died as a result of two gunshot wounds. David Hodges had not been found. As the crowd murmured, the undersheriff stated he had another important announcement.

At the same moment, Catherine Willows stood and made her way to the right side of the podium. Nick and Greg glanced at Sara who shrugged her shoulders in puzzlement which lasted about a minute.

One of the commissioners met Catherine as she stepped on the raised platform and walked with her to the front of the stage.

The undersheriff welcomed Catherine, adding a few sentences about her history with the department and her move to the FBI. As he shook her hand, he said, "Catherine has agreed to take the position as Sheriff of Clark County for six months until a nationwide search can be done."

A pin dropped in a far corner could have been heard in the collective silence that came—for a second—and then everyone broke into loud applause. People stood, applause continued for several minutes.

The undersheriff was smiling, the county commissioners were smiling, and Catherine was smiling.

Quietly, Nick said, "Well, I'll be damn."

"Who would have thought…" came from Greg.

Sara and Grissom remained silent, both stunned by the announcement.

After a few minutes, Grissom said, "She'll do fine—Catherine has always been political."

 _A/N: We had hopes of finishing this one by the end of the year-don't think its happening. So hang in with us-thank you for staying with our story. (Did you notice-we decided to write a completely different case for getting Grissom to Vegas?)_


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Another chapter-thank you for reading._

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 30**

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of sorrow and celebration. Everyone appeared to be relieved and pleased to have Catherine Willows return in an unexpected way. Naming her as sheriff had been a surprise that seemed to be working.

Catherine looked good on camera, calling many of the reporters by name as she answered questions. And she was good at answering questions even when the answer was not straightforward. The behind-the-scenes-wealthy political players of Vegas knew and liked Catherine; no one questioned her holdings in one of the newest resorts on the Strip. If anything, people thought of it as a good thing.

The mourning period for a sheriff had no blueprint but the ritual for death was well-established and that moved forward with astonishing speed.

And the hunt for the sheriff's killer continued.

After several hours of poring over case files, Grissom had retreated to the break room for a needed cup of coffee when Catherine showed up. He had hoped for a few minutes of solitary thought, but that was not to happen as she dropped into the chair next to him and arranged another chair for her feet.

Laughing, she said, "I don't even remember getting here—and now I'm the sheriff."

"You'll do fine, Catherine. What about the FBI? How will you handle that?"

Another laugh. "I'm on unpaid leave for six months. I don't think I want this job permanently but I can handle six months."

When Grissom said nothing, Catherine leaned against his shoulder, asking, "What about you? What are you doing here? I mean—Nick said you were in San Diego when he got a call from Sara. David Hodges threatening the reputation of the lab is pretty damn extreme—do you think he really did anything?"

Pointing to his untouched cup, her eyebrows lifted in an unasked question. Grissom scooted it to her hand.

Catherine continued talking, "I can't believe Hodges would shoot Ecklie—I mean, he was always brown-nosing, so what pushed his button? Ecklie hired Hodges! I mean—to kill someone—what would cause that?" She took a long swallow of coffee. "What did Heather say? Was Hodges involved with her? Imagine that—Hodges and Ecklie sharing the same woman." She wiggled her shoulders in a fake shiver. "I don't even want to go there."

She took another swallow of coffee; Grissom remained silent.

"Did you know his mother is terminally ill? Greg said only a few people knew. She's in hospice care—in a coma. He spent the night sitting in a chair in her room before driving to Heather's place."

Grissom had been working for several hours reviewing open cases, searching for any damage David Hodges might have done with evidence. While the search had gone on for the killer, he had been immersed in past cases. As he sat silently while Catherine chattered on, his conscious mind delved into Hodges' mother's illness.

Finally, he broke in, saying, "Wait a minute. Terminally ill—Hodges' mother? Do you know the illness?"

"Liver failure, according to Henry. Why?"

Grissom remembered something. He said, "Hodges said something to Ecklie—'you did this'—something like that. What did he mean? Did what?"

Catherine pointed a finger and clicked her tongue, saying, "You've still got it." Taking her phone she tapped out a message.

A few minutes passed before Sara entered the room followed by Greg and Nick.

Smiling, Catherine said, "It's like old times, isn't it?"

Nick and Greg grinned.

"What's up?" Sara asked as she took a chair across the table from Grissom. In her presence, Grissom had to make himself take a breath; she had been working for hours yet she was beautiful. He stared until she glanced at him. Nick and Greg filled in with chairs on either side.

Catherine took the lead. "Do we know the cause of Mrs. Hodges' liver failure?"

Sara answered, "Overdose of acetaminophen—tragic. Hodges said it was accidental—she mixed up medications." She quirked her mouth in what Grissom recognized as an indication of more to come. "To accidentally take an overdose of Tylenol would be unlikely—it happened about three weeks ago."

Nick asked, "How does this lead to Hodges shooting Ecklie?"

Everyone was quiet for several long moments.

"Ecklie and Hodges' mom—didn't they date?" asked Sara. She had squiggled connecting lines on a folded paper. She glanced up, adding, "Hodges tried to date Morgan—there was something going on."

Nick joined in, saying, "They did! I remember Hodges bragging." He turned to Greg, asking, "What do you remember?"

"Nothing! We've never talked about it! Morgan likes Hodges but says he always acted so weird about his mother. Remember they went to Italy and Hodges came back with that beautiful woman?"

"Morgan? Would she know?" Catherine asked. Crinkling her nose, she said, "Well, we don't want to ask her now. Her mother is flying in—she has a lot on her right now."

"We need to find Hodges." Grissom said.

Catherine said, "We think he's holding up in one of the big hotels. Waiting—or something else."

"You think he's dead?" from Nick.

"It's a good possibility—after he realized what he'd done," said Catherine.

"Well," Grissom sighed, "Nick and I have checked—what thirty or forty cases files—and found nothing to indicate tampering or contamination."

Catherine stood, saying, "Go home—all of you. You're exhausted." She turned to Nick and Grissom, adding, "There are rooms at the Eclipse for you two. Unless you have other plans."

Everyone murmured agreement that sleep was needed but Catherine stopped their departure.

"Wait," she said. "One more thing. I think it comes as no surprise to any of you when I announce the new director of the lab will be Sara." She waved a hand in Sara's direction and gave a soft laugh. "Finally, she can move to days—or nights! Officially, I'll announce it tomorrow."

As the others congratulated Sara with hugs, Grissom watched, waiting his turn.

Catherine said, "Let her get out of here—she needs rest so she'll look good for the cameras!"

With good-natured goodbyes, Nick and Greg left the room.

"Do you need a ride, Grissom? To the Eclipse? Or—or…" Catherine trailed off as she suddenly realized she was the third wheel in the room. She waved as she exited, saying, "I'm sure you two have enough to talk about—see you tomorrow."

Sara spoke first. "I can drive you to the Eclipse if you want."

"Sara."

Her head tilted. She bit her bottom lip. Her eyes stayed on him for several long moments. Finally, she said, "Yes."

"We—I'd really like to talk—just us. Not about work."

Sara remained where she was standing. She said, "It's been a long day, Gil. I—I think I've been awake for about twenty hours. I—I don't think I can talk—not now." Sighing, she seemed to make a decision. "I'll be happy to take you to the Eclipse. Or—or—would you like to sleep at the house? You've still got some things there."

Her eyes stared into the distance as she lingered; her fingers tapped the table.

Grissom did not wait; immediately, he said, "I'd like that—to sleep at your house." He pressed his fingers together before softly saying, "I'll get my bag."

It took a few minutes. A dozen people stopped Sara to congratulate her on the pending promotion. Young men and women, serious, enthusiastic faces; he knew none of them. Finally, they were in Sara's car.

Grissom belted in and when Sara started the car, he said, "You've got a new one."

"In the spring," Sara answered. "I—I thought it was time."

Softly, he chuckled. "I remember how much you researched the first one."

"Are you hungry?"

"Dinner?"

Sara laughed. "Drive thru—or take out—eat in? I don't cook much."

They chose Chinese. Service was fast and food was good; neither one mentioned it had been a favorite for years; when they did talk, it was about Conrad Ecklie.

When they arrived at Sara's house—the house Grissom had worked so hard to find, the house they had turned into their home—he was, again, almost breathless; he was speechless as she led the way into the house.

"I'll get a few things you might need," Sara said as she passed through the living room, heading into the master bedroom.

Remaining in the living room because there was no doubt where he would sleep, Grissom noticed more plants in the foyer, several pieces of new furniture, a stack of books next to a chair—and photographs on the shelves.

Carefully, he ambled around the living room, curious to see what else had changed. He was surprised to find several photos of him and Sara, together, almost picking one up before hearing her returning footsteps. He quickly stepped away and picked up a book.

Returning, Sara said, "You can use either bedroom—and—and these are yours. I—I—I've never gotten around to packing everything up."

Her words were soft, so soft that Grissom moved near her and she handed him a stack of folded clothes—his clothes—boxers, a couple of old tee-shirts, even a pair of socks.

As soon as she handed the clothes to him, she turned, murmuring, "Good night", and a few seconds later, he heard the bedroom closing, firmly.

 _A/N: Thank you for reading; we appreciate your comments, reviews, and encouragement! More to come-probably after the holidays._


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who keeps reading...more coming._

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 31**

Grissom lay on his back in the darkness on a very comfortable bed with both hands behind his head. The bedroom was one of two on a short hallway, on the opposite side of the house from where Sara was sleeping. He had taken a long, hot shower in the spacious bathroom; a room he had once thought to be small. He had almost forgotten how it felt to enjoy a shower. And then grab a large, soft towel to wrap around his body added luxury to the process.

Sleep was postponed for a while as he gradually developed an amazing light of truth. Occupied with the beautiful woman who had offered this bedroom, his mind had steadfastly refused to rest. His thoughts had been racing around his brain like an every-accelerating whirligig. He knew he loved her; and based on photographs in her house, she still loved him—why else would she keep photographs of their honeymoon trip in her living room.

In the quietness of a house he'd once known well, he realized he needed to change. He knew he was no longer the man, the supervisor, of one of the top crime labs in the nation; he was not sure what had made him push himself, and his life, into some solitary chamber. He would never say the past few years had been uninteresting or a failure. He had enjoyed it—and yet, his enjoyment had been at the expense of a woman he loved—one he loved very much, he admitted.

And, as he lay on a bed she had made, between sheets she had selected and smoothed with her hands, he knew he could no longer stand aloof, unwilling to be involved in her life. He would seek to set at ease, to alleviate damage he had caused. To make Sara's life easier—and, in the end, love her as she had loved him—as she would love him. He had left her; truth be told, he had deserted her because of his failure. Nothing she had done had caused the fracture that led to their divorce. He could change and with that thought, his eyes closed.

Surely, it had only been a few minutes that he slept when he jerked awake with an unfamiliar sound intruding upon his brain. Trying to clear his eyes of weary sleep, his brain of foggy dreams, he knew someone had entered the room.

Sara.

She sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet. As his eyes adjusted to wakefulness, he saw she was dressed, yet there was no early dawn light seeking its way around the window blinds.

When he moved, she spoke, "I hate to wake you—but I'm leaving—I—I thought you might want to go. Hodges has been found. Alive, but barely."

Immediately, he was out of bed and pulling on pants he'd left folded near the bed. And asking questions, "Where is he? Did he turn himself in?"

"No," Sara said softly as she handed him a shirt. "Someone called from the hospice where his mother is—was—she died a short time ago."

"They called you?"

"No, no—he is at the hospice and left a note to call Greg who called Catherine and me. They are already there."

Grissom gathered his wallet and glasses, stuck his feet into his shoes, and said, "I'm ready." He buttoned his shirt as they headed out the door. "What did he do? I mean—alive but barely."

"Greg said there is a long note—returned to the hospice, drank antifreeze after shooting Ecklie. The hospice has a key card entry system, so he got there, went in the back door, and wrote the note, then stretched out on the sofa in his mother's room. Evidently, the employees check on patients, but not their visitors—no one thought about him until a new shift arrived. Even then, it took several hours for someone to realize he was—was dying and not just asleep."

Grissom grunted softly, asking "Wasn't there a deputy outside?"

"Yep," Sara answered. "Hodges has always been a sneaky—always been smart so I'm sure it was easy for him to slip in without being noticed."

"Does he say why he killed Ecklie?"

Sara nodded. "Greg says it is in his letter." When Grissom remained silent, she continued. "Hodges' mother was depressed when she took the overdose—either real or imagined, Hodges decided it was Ecklie's fault that his mother overdosed. Then he learned Ecklie was visiting Heather's gym and that's where he—he tracked him—that's it in a nutshell."

They continued in silence for several long moments.

Then, Sara asked, "What connection did Ecklie have with Heather?" He watched a ghost of a smile appear and disappear across her face. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she added, "Come on—I know you know."

A quiet chuckle. "Honestly—this is true—I had never heard of 'Lady Heather' until Jim and I landed on her porch years ago. I'd heard of fetish clubs but none specific. She popped up again later, another murder—and Jim and I had a long talk about her and who were her 'clients'—Heather was one-of-a-kind—intelligent, an anthropologist who would equal any professional educated…"

Sara made a sharp turn, jostling him in his seat; deciding he wasn't winning points by praising Heather Kessler, he rushed ahead, saying, "Jim knew Ecklie was a customer of one of the fetish clubs—I never asked—and Heather would never say. Years later, when she became a therapist, I visited her about a case—to ask a few questions—her phone was on her desk and when it rang, I glanced at the number—it was Ecklie's personal number. I surmised that Ecklie was still—still involved with Heather on some basis."

"Life coach," Sara whispered. Then she spoke louder, saying, "We all know Heather knew the 'right' people when she was never charged for whatever when on after her daughter was killed." She glanced at Grissom. "Not you—even though everyone thought you two were more than friendly—friends—what do you call Heather?"

"A friend, no more, no less."

"Come on."

He heard a tease in the lift of her voice. She continued, "Did you have a safe word?"

"Stop!"

Now incredulous, laughing, as she said, "Stop? You used the word stop?"

He had forgotten how she could tease. He said, "No, we never had a safe word because all we ever did was talk. And drink tea."

A low humming sound came from Sara as she executed another sharp turn. She said, "Almost there."

Catherine had managed to keep the situation low key. Two patrol cars were in the parking lot; one man was standing at the door.

As they entered the building, Sara asked, "Who else is here?"

The man answered, "Catherine Willows, Vartann, Greg, you two—and Nick Stokes came in with Greg. Sheriff Willows said to keep it quiet—you know, because of others here."

The place was quiet; only a few people in the halls. A woman in a blue shirt pointed to a room where another deputy stood by the door. He pushed the door open when Sara and Grissom approached; Nick turned as they entered, shaking his head as he mouthed "He's gone."

At their look of confusion, Nick added, "He was in a coma when we arrived." Shaking his head, his hand rubbed his eyes, he said, "I know this has to be one of the most bizarre…" He threw his hands up before placing them on his hips. "What was Hodges thinking?"

Greg and Catherine joined them.

Greg handed Sara a clear plastic evidence bags containing several pages. "It's all here," he said. "While everyone was on the Strip looking for him, Hodges was here. The empty container is in the bathroom along with empty beer bottles."

Catherine suggested they leave the room and find another place to talk, which turned out to be a small chapel near the entrance. During the short walk, Sara called Doc Robbins who, without questions, said he would be there in fifteen minutes.

While they waited, the group talked, quietly, subdued by the gravity of the situation. By the time Doc Robbins arrived with Dave Phillips, work had been divided, appropriate people had been notified, and the task of closing the lives of two significant individuals came to rest with the intimate friends in the chapel.

None in the group was overly religious yet the simply furnished chapel seemed to work to bring recent events into a bearable acknowledgment; each one reaching an understanding that involved regret, puzzlement, and compassion.

It took several hours to complete the details of an investigation that was not a 'normal' crime scene. The new sheriff made one mistake—telling the new lab director to be thorough so there would be no questions about the process. Everyone in the room seemed to draw the same breath.

Lou Vartann said, "Sara and Greg are always thorough, Catherine."

Everyone breathed again when Sara made a poignant laugh. "I'm going to love working with you, Catherine."

And then Catherine laughed, saying, "I don't have any business here—so—so I think I'll go meet the press. Be politic—wise—all those things."

Nick and Grissom left with Catherine while Greg and Sara finished up.

Greg seized the opportunity. He said, "Okay, tell me."

Sara shot a glance his way, saying nothing.

Persisting, Greg said, "Grissom's back in town. How did that happen? And where'd he sleep last night—at least he disappeared for a few hours and arrived with you."

Shaking her head, Sara almost grinned before twisting her mouth and biting her bottom lip. She said, "He came with Nick. From what I know, Grissom had been on a boat following fishermen who he followed into San Diego harbor. Got caught trespassing—that's how Nick found him. I called Nick who said he'd come and bring help—help was Grissom."

Greg helped pack away the last evidence bags. He said, "It must be weird—I mean, having him back after all this time."

"He's here for a few days, Greg. I offered him a bed in the house. He slept. So did I—apart."

Kneeling in front of a box of evidence, sliding the last bag into the box, Greg asked, "Are you two talking? About—about not being married? About what happened?" Greg's voice became serious as he said, "He—he broke up with you over the phone—or email! He wouldn't even return to—to talk—you packed up his stuff!"

Sara extended her hand to his as he started to stand, holding it in hers for a minute before speaking. "Don't be angry with him, Greg. He's a good person—and—it's complicated."

"How is it complicated, Sara? You made a home here—and then he left, came back, left again and again. And one day he didn't come back. Until yesterday."

Letting go of his hand, Sara backed away, leaning against the wall and bringing her arms across her chest. Rolling her eyes skyward, she sighed before making a soft laugh. "It's you and me now, isn't it? Like Grissom and Catherine were when we came to the lab—God—I was so green! And pretty much awed by both of them." A long moment passed before she continued, "I've been in love with Gil Grissom since—I'm pretty sure from the first time I laid eyes on him." Softly, she scoffed. "I'm hopeless, aren't I? And I'm fairly certain he still loves me." Pausing, keeping her eyes upward, she said, "We couldn't have children. And we tried everything—every way. And it just didn't—would not happen."

"I didn't know," Greg whispered. "None of us knew—he left you because you couldn't have his children?"

Reaching for her case and the one Greg carried, Sara headed to the door. She said, "No, it's not that—it's—it's never been simple with us."

Greg reached ahead of her and opened the door, balancing the box of evidence as he did. "Just so you know, Morgan and I are pretty tight—I mean, as a couple—you know that, right? I—we've talked about getting married and having kids."

Sara smiled. "You should do it," she said.

 _A/N: We appreciate all of you! Some have been with us since the first story! What a long fun journey this is! Thanks to all!_


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Thank you for staying with us, for reviewing, for providing encouragement!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 32**

As interim sheriff, Catherine Willows had been placed in a position that produced a response of support and approval. By the time Sara and Greg had processed evidence, putting everything in unquestionable order, Catherine and those around her had set plans in place for an appropriate memorial service for Conrad Ecklie. It would be a tribute; it would also be a pageant in true Los Vegas style.

Grissom and Nick, elbow deep in evidence boxes heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

"Did he really tamper with cases?"

Both turned, smiling, as Jim Brass entered the room. He continued, "Hodges was always a weird duck and Ecklie was peculiar in his way—he could cover it up better than Hodges."

"How are you, Jim?" Grissom stripped a glove from his hand, extending it to the man he'd called 'friend' for many years.

After shaking hands, patting each other's backs as if it had been a week instead of several years since they had talked, Jim turned to Nick. No handshakes but genuine hugs happened naturally as the two greeted each other.

"You're looking good, old guy!"

"San Diego agrees with you, I see!"

The three men moved easily into a conversation about recent events, moving from Ecklie's death and funeral arrangements to Hodges' threats and death.

"So far, nothing suggests he tampered with anything—just an empty threat," Nick said.

Jim asked, "What's to be done with Hodges? And his mother? What a mess left for someone to handle."

Grissom spoke, "Nick and I have talked. His mother had made plans—cremation and interment at Eden Vale. We thought the same for Hodges."

Nodding, Jim said, "I'll talk to Catherine—she'll be happy for you do it and she'll provide the funds." He chuckled, "Who would have thought old Sam Braun's daughter would be sheriff! His old buddies are shaking their heads."

"You think anyone will give her problems?" Grissom asked.

Another chuckle from Brass. "Not likely. Catherine was made for this—have you seen her on local news?" He waved a hand over the evidence boxes, saying, "Close this up—Hodges didn't do anything to this. Emotions, the psyche, a brain tumor—any one or all can make a person go nuts."

Nick and Grissom, glancing at each other, shrugged and began to close up the boxes.

"Let's go talk—catch up—eat some food," Brass suggested. "I've got wheels."

Nick sent a text message to Catherine while Grissom headed to Sara's office. Not finding her, he wrote a note, taping it to the door. By the time he returned, only Brass was standing in the hallway.

"What happened to Nick?"

Brass started walking, motioning Grissom to come with him. "Catherine wanted him. She knows you and I are going to find a good drink." He chuckled. "All anyone has around here is some kind of health or energy drink—I'm thinking of something a bit more—golden."

A few minutes later, Grissom admired the new vehicle Brass was driving.

"Thanks to the nice job I have—provides a company vehicle." Brass lifted his eyebrows several times, making fun of himself. "I'm paid well, good hours, and," chuckling, "I walk around in a clean, citrus-smelling building all day. Sure beats piss and stale body odor."

Grissom laughed. "So you like working for Catherine?"

"I work for the Sam Braun Casino Group—Catherine happens to be the major share holder."

The two men talked easily, picking up an amiable conversation as if they had seen each other the previous day. And with this effortless camaraderie, Jim Brass drove to a familiar bar and grill where they found an empty booth, ordering food and drinks they had enjoyed for more years than either man wanted to count.

They talked about Ecklie which segued into talking about others who had worked in the lab without missing a beat. Jim Brass had not forgotten many events touching lives of those he'd worked with and related marriages, births, deaths, and divorces with ease.

After a sip of the amber liquid in his glass, Brass said, "I had a good career—a great career—I put it above everything else in my life. A mistake, I know now—before she died—Nancy—I knew I'd love her for years but too proud to admit it. Together—we—we might have been better for Ellie." Swirling his glass, before taking another swallow, savoring it for a minute, he continued. "Life is short—an old friend, Annie Kramer, is retiring next month and she's moving here." Smiling, he said, "We might get married—what do you think of that?"

Grissom murmured something that could be taken as agreement or approval before taking a sip of his own beverage.

Food arrived and after a few minutes of eating, Jim brought up one person he had not mentioned.

"So—how did you find Sara? I heard you spent the night with her."

Almost imperceptibly, Grissom shook his head. "She offered a bed. Nothing more. I'm here for a few nights."

Brass stirred the thick stew in front of him and chewed on a chunk of bread. Waiting. When Grissom forked potatoes into his mouth, Brass placed his spoon beside the bowl.

He said, "You and Sara need to work things out. She's still as love-struck as she was fifteen years ago—and you—what are you doing? Doing your 'save the world' routine and ignoring the woman who would give her right arm to have you living at home."

When Grissom started to say something, Brass stopped him with a raised finger, saying, "No excuses. I don't know what happened between you two. I don't know why you got a divorce. It doesn't matter why you thought you had to get a divorce—but it's killing Sara."

"She looks great," Grissom protested.

With a mocking chuckle, Brass said, "She's turning into Gil Grissom circa 2001! All she does is work! The woman deserves a life, Gil."

Quietly, Grissom said, "I want the best for her, Jim. She deserves it—she deserves…" his voice dropped to a whisper. "She deserves someone who—who can—can give her what I couldn't."

"Come on, man! What can you not do for her! Other than break her heart!"

Grissom shook his head. "It's complicated."

Suddenly, Jim Brass had a moment of clarity, remembering when Sara revealed she was no longer married to Gil Grissom. He had not been in the room but had heard it from D.B., from Nick and Greg, and finally, days later, from Sara. She'd said something about 'best interest'—at the time, he had been angry at Grissom for not showing up and had not thought about the words.

He said, "Best interest—what does that mean? You found another woman?"

Another shake of his head came from Grissom.

Brass curled his fingers in a wave. He said, "Tell me—why the divorce? You know my history—an affair, a daughter who wasn't mine—if I haven't lived it, I've heard it-spill."

Silence grew between the two men as their food grew cold but neither man picked up fork or spoon.

Grissom's eyes moved to something behind Jim's head. He drew a deep breath before saying, "I—I could not father a child."

His mouth dropped open for a few seconds but Brass caught himself before he laughed. "Neither could I, old buddy, but I had a daughter—I knew she wasn't mine, but I loved that baby—that little girl—I still love her even after all she's done." He shrugged. "I visit her twice a month and she's doing good—really good."

Grissom knew the history of Ellie and how she had ended up in prison, serving life without any hope of parole. The pain in his friend's eyes was from deep sorrow but there was something else in eyes that softened when he had talked about Ellie.

"I—I couldn't do that to Sara, Jim. With someone else, she might have a child."

Now, disbelief flashed across Jim's face. He said, "She isn't going to fall in love with someone else." He picked up his spoon and stirred the stew, watching the contents of the bowl float to the top and disappear under tomato red sauce. "If she wants kids, you two are smart enough to figure out how to get one or two."

Grissom cut his meatloaf and then dipped its edge into his potatoes. For several minutes, the two men ate in silence.

"I want to do the right thing."

A soft chuckle came from Brass. "Tell her you love her—take her flowers—chocolate! A piece of jewelry. Amazing what those things say to a woman."

A smile played around Grissom's mouth. He said, "She's such a beautiful woman, Jim. I get a little tongue-tied being in the same room with her."

Brass picked up his spoon, using it to emphasize his words, said, "Buy the flowers, the chocolate, the jewelry—you won't have to do much talking. Trust me."

 _A/N: And on that comment...more to come! We appreciate hearing from readers!_


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: A new chapter! Let us know what you think!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 33**

After visiting for several hours with Jim Brass, Gil Grissom had a plan. It started with the upscale shops in the Eclipse Casino. Brass handed him a card with a telephone number.

"Call this number and the guy will drive you where you want to go," Brass said as he gave a small white card to Grissom. He watched as Grissom ambled away, walking in the direction of the shopping mall where gamblers and wives and girlfriends purchased expensive, high end clothing, jewelry and watches, shoes and bags, fragrances, even mink key rings—he'd seen it all and hoped his friend had a charge card with a high limit.

Grissom was on a mission; he had not been shopping—really shopping—in two years. It usually took him twenty minutes or less to buy whatever he needed. But this wasn't a 'need' shopping trip.

In the first shop, he quickly found what he wanted with the assistance of two young women who asked a few questions and showed him several pieces of jewelry before he decided on a long gold chain with a dangling crystal. A "modern delicate" style one of the women explained as the other wrapped the gift.

The next store was familiar; he'd shopped in one for several years once he had realized he enjoyed their line of intimate wear and Sara liked to wear it. Thinking it might be presuming too much, he had run the idea by Jim Brass who immediately voiced encouragement.

It was easy to select—blue, black, red, and a creamy white. He realized he was getting an almost forgotten growing warmth developing below his waist just by touching the silky fabric that he hoped to see on Sara. He thought, 'How pathetic I am' and then decided he wasn't pathetic—just ready to end the long months of solitary living.

He asked the woman who handed him his pink shopping bag where he could find good candy. She told him, pointing in the direction of the store.

When he completed his shopping adventure, he called the number on Jim's card and a few minutes later, he was in a dark blue car heading to Sara's house. And doubt and uncertainty worried its way to the forefront of his thoughts.

The driver had noticed the pink shopping bag and the gold-wrapped candy box and commented, "Looks like you are getting prepared for an apology or a very nice evening."

Grissom laughed. "Hoping for both—acted like a fool and now I'm seeking to make things right."

The two men had a quiet laugh before Grissom asked, "Do you know a good florist? I need one more thing."

The florist was a great one. As Grissom moved from one kind of flower to another, from a potted plant to tray of perennials, the florist arranging a large colorful bouquet watched for several minutes before approaching.

In a few minutes, the man had asked questions and was arranging several fragrant herbs in a stone planter.

"She will enjoy these—even if she doesn't cook!" The florist pressed a flowering plant into the soil and then stuck small identifying markers beside each plant.

The house was lighted when they arrived but no car in the driveway meant Sara had not gotten home. The two men worked quickly to get everything inside and after the driver left, Grissom was at loose ends, trying to decide what to do next, then thinking he had gotten too much to give to Sara at once, worrying she would not like any of it. Or perhaps he was rushing to win intimacy.

He paced. When he got to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks. No food. He thought he had been so clever with his shopping—and now, there was no food. He opened the refrigerator and found what he expected—leftovers in plastic containers, a small block of cheese, wilted greens, yogurt, half a bottle of wine, and three beers. Obvious that Sara didn't cook much, he thought.

Looking for take-out menus, he opened several drawers finding kitchen utensils, kitchen towels, even the cutting board, familiar. Tucked into a drawer, he found one curled pizza menu. As he closed the last drawer, he wondered if Sara had changed anything in the years since he'd left. Leaning against the refrigerator, he unrolled the paper menu; old, creased, with his handwriting along the edge. A message he had written. Taking a deep breath, he pressed his hand against his aching chest.

Jim Brass had been right.

After a few minutes, he dialed the number on the pizza menu, surprised when the call was answered by a voice asking, "Are you ready to order? What size?"

A hot pizza arrived at the front door minutes after Grissom had gotten out of the shower. Still no Sara. The pizza went into the oven.

He wanted to call her—or send her a text message. He hesitated, changed his mind, pocketed his phone, and paced around the house. Twice, he almost opened the door to Sara's bedroom, backing away each time. Finally, he took a beer to the terrace where he raised his feet to rest on a footstool, took a long swallow of the beer, and leaned his head against the back cushion of the chair.

"Gil."

He heard the soft voice only seconds before feeling a hand on this leg.

"Sara."

A blissful smile, one he had not seen since he arrived, was on her face. As he scrambled to get up, he knocked over the stool; extending her hand to him, the smile remained.

She said, "I smelled food—and found a beautiful pot of plants on the table—when I came in."

Grissom managed to stand and place the stool upright before facing Sara. And then he lost his voice and stumbled for words as she stood in front of him with that delightful smile on her face.

"I—uh—I—ordered pizza—vegetarian—uh—uh—it's warm. In the oven."

Sara took a few steps back. "And the plants?"

"I—I know you love plants."

She kept a smile on her face as she turned, heading back into the house. He followed. Effortlessly, she reached in the refrigerator, retrieving two beers, turned and pulled the pizza out of the oven, nodded in the direction of plates and napkins, and carried the pizza and beers back to the terrace.

Grissom followed with plates and napkins.

"How was Jim?"

"Good—it was—it was good to visit with him."

They placed everything on a round table; Sara moved beers and plates so they were across the table from each other with pizza between them. Then Grissom remembered the necklace and chocolate.

"I'll be right back."

When he returned, he placed the box of candy on the table. "For you—I—I—thought you—you might like this."

Surprise caused Sara's eye's to widen. "Candy and plants? Wow! What's going on?"

He took the chair across from her. Condensation covered the beer bottles; small droplets of water shimmered and gleamed with tiny points of light.

"I—I wanted to thank you—for—for letting me stay here. You didn't have to make the offer."

She reached for a slice of pizza and formed it in a fold hold; something Grissom had noticed for years as her method of eating pizza. Watching her bite into it was a pleasure.

He was fairly certain she was chewing very slowly for a reason. He said, "You've done a great job here—the house looks great."

He got a slight nod and continued, "And at work—it's—it's easy to see why you are the director now."

She made a humming sound, took a swallow of beer, before saying, "I think it was my time—seniority or something—stayed here long enough." She shrugged. "Who would have thought—you were the one to leave and I stayed."

"Sara—Sara." He placed his uneaten slice on the plate. "We need to talk—I—I mean—really talk. About us."

Her pizza slice slid from her fingers to her plate; her fingers touched a napkin and brought it to her lips. She said, "I—I don't know—what do you want to say?" A ghost of a smile played along her lips before a crease formed between her eyebrows.

For a few seconds, he thought she was teasing him before he looked at her eyes. And then he knew. He knew he'd been a fool; he knew he had hurt her deeply. And he knew he'd been forgiven.

Reaching into his pocket, he brought out the small jewelry box, pushed the pizza aside, and placed it in front of Sara before saying, "I'm trying to say I'm sorry for what I've done, for how I hurt you."

She did not open the box; instead, she covered his hand with hers. "Shhh," she said as her fingers went to her lips. "Don't say anything else, please." Her fingers tightened around his. "As much as—as much as I'd like to think we could go back to the way things were," her words rushed, "I'm not sure we—I can do that." Her thumb stroked the top of his hand. "I know—I know this has been an emotional upheaval for both of us—seeing each other again after all this time—in a tragic situation."

If a heart could actually sink, Grissom knew his did. He didn't move, didn't speak.

Her fingers joined her thumb in softly stroking his hand. "I know you love me," she whispered. Her eyes met his. "And I love you—always will. We had some great times—the best I'll ever have were with you."

Releasing his hand, she reached for pizza, not the box, before continuing, "Thank you for the pizza—it's good—and the candy and the plants." She made a soft chuckle, saying, "God, I sound like some—some old lady."

"You are not an old lady."

A brief, sad smile flickered across her face. "We are like ships, Gil. Crossing paths and blinking lights at each other."

Grissom could not believe his ears. He said, "We are not ships. We are people—two people who love each other. One," he pointed to his chest, "Has been a fool—running around trying to—to—on some kind of quest for something—and what I really wanted was here—right here waiting."

Sara nodded her head in agreement. "Yes, I've been here." Sighing, she took another bite of pizza, chewing slowly, and then lifted the beer, taking a long swallow. "I'm so tired," she said. "I need sleep." A quiet laugh. "Never thought you'd hear me say that—at one time, I was never tired. But I'm exhausted—I think if I could sleep for twenty-four hours, I'd appreciate having you here—appreciate your kindness."

Her half-eaten pizza was on her plate; most of the beer remained in the bottle.

Standing, she walked around the table and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I need a shower and a few hours of sleep. Again, thank you for the food, the plants—the candy and—and the gift—I—I'll look at it later."

Her hand left his shoulder and she quickly disappeared into the house.

After a few minutes of stunned silence, he gathered pizza, plates, and beer bottles and took everything to the kitchen. The necklace remained on the table. He considered making coffee but decided it would keep him awake and somehow found himself back on the terrace. He sat down heavily, chewing his lip, his eyes wandering around the darkened yard and back to the jewelry box.

His plan had disappeared; a wasted, futile strategy. His head dropped to his hands. What could he do? There was no making up, no way to go back in time.

He did not know how long he sat on the terrace before his mind arrived at an answer. Life wasn't neat and well organized and presenting gifts and at this point, he had nothing to lose.

Walking back into the house, he listened intently for sounds. Hearing nothing, he walked to the closed bedroom door and knocked.

He heard "Yes" and opened the door. Sara was sitting on the bed, a pillow against the headboard, a book in her lap. When he stepped through the door, she looked up, but did not speak, did not seem happy to see him.

Grissom crossed the room, knelt beside the bed, and placed his folded hands next to her thigh. "Sara, I'm so sorry for all the years, for everything. I can't atone," he whispered. "I do love you. I—I have a hard time saying those words to you."

For a long moment, she remained where she was and then she slid to the floor, holding his hands in hers.

"I think I'm wishing for a—a miracle," she said.

He smiled at her. "You never did stop loving me, did you?"

"No, never."

"I must have hurt you very much."

She smiled. "Not in the way you think. I knew you loved me—and—and I knew I could wait. A patient person always wins in the end." Her fingers touched his chin and then she reached for her book. She pulled a well-folded piece of paper from between the pages. "I've always kept this close."

Immediately, he knew what she held. "You've still got it?" Unfolding the letter, he smiled as he read it, remembering the time he'd tried to write her a letter and had copied a very old poem.

Sara's hand came to his. Softly, in a whisper, she said, "Kiss me."

He did.

Languorous and deep, an opportunity to taste and smell and feel, settled by layers into voluptuous ease. Their hands searched and spread, held and hardened against the other. Like coming home, recognizing every part of her with his hands and body.

At some point, he revealed he had made love to her a thousand times in his imagination which completely captivated her.

A few minutes later, she demanded he finish; his arms were around hers so strongly he could feel the contours of her bones. And he did. Finish what had been started.

A while later, wrapped in a sated peace, rumpled sheets covering their bodies, they had fallen into a rhythm of slow and easy breathing; his head lay against her shoulder. Her leg was thrown over his. Gently, he moved, turning to his back, inviting her to slide deeper into the intimacy between them. Her hand caressed his thigh and slid to cup around the languid form of his penis. Gradually, it was not languid and undemanding but rising and rigid and she wanted him again.

Thoughts and senses merged as her joyous cry was smothered by a happiness that shook both so deeply that they lost awareness of everything beyond their bodies.

 _A/N: A few more chapters coming. We appreciate hearing from you!_


	34. Chapter 34

_**A/N: Thanks for reading! One or two more chapters before this one comes to an end!**_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 34**

 _Over the next two weeks, the following observations and conversations occurred:_

Sheriff Catherine Willows kept glancing at the new lab director. More than a dozen people crowded in a conference room, half of them talking, and Sara Sidle stood out like a—like a rose in the desert, she thought.

Someone—Brent Something-or-other—was going on and on about logistics and cameras and press for Conrad Ecklie's memorial service. Catherine knew when to show up and what she'd be wearing. Another glance at Sara.

There was something different about Sara this morning; a sharp intake of air from Catherine before she averted her eyes from Sara. Sex. That blush came from sex; looking intently without moving closer, Catherine thought she could see a darker red mark along Sara's neck. Beard rash. She was certain.

Someone—Brent—called Catherine's name and she had to stop looking and thinking about Sara.

Quickly, she thanked Brent for his excellent work and plans. She thanked everyone in the room, dismissing them with a "be safe". Immediately, a line formed to talk to her; she noticed Sara was among the first out of the room.

As the sheriff, Catherine learned quickly about the numerous demands made on the position for twenty-four hours a day. And as her days rolled into a week, she was extremely satisfied to have a trusted friend and professional as director of the crime lab.

The day before the memorial service for Ecklie, Catherine sat at the dining table in Sara's house, enjoying old friends and good food. During those hours, she watched as Gil Grissom—for lack of a better word—courted the woman he loved. It wasn't excessively noticeable and he sat at the opposite end of the table but she noticed. He knew where to find things, when glasses needed refilling; he was comfortable in this house.

The next day, the city's civic center was packed with mourners from all over the country. Conrad's only child, Morgan, was truly grief-stricken. Catherine wasn't sure anyone else would feel his loss as much as his daughter.

Someone, probably Brent, had put together a short movie about Ecklie that had the effect of making Ecklie's life seem more vibrant, rich and substantial than the lives of everyone in attendance. The sound track was perfectly synchronized for maximum impact giving irrefutable evidence that Conrad Ecklie was a good man.

Catherine almost forgot that at one time she and Ecklie had been on very friendly terms; for a short time, they disappeared, had drinks together, and jokingly talked about going further. However, there was something about the man and his insinuations that caused her to step back, truthfully consider her career, deciding their relationship should go no further. Both had moved on without regrets.

For several days afterwards, she did not see Sara. She knew Nick had returned to San Diego; she wasn't sure where Gil Grissom was but when she set eyes on Sara, she was sure Grissom was still in Las Vegas.

The two women discussed business, open cases, moving employees to other shifts, selecting candidates for job openings.

As Sara got up to leave, Catherine asked, "Is Grissom happy to be back?"

Sara response was, "He's not here. He went back to his boat—doing his 'save the ocean' work."

Catherine was surprised into silence. She would have placed a bet on the man being in town. Sara was radiant—glowing—in appearance. As Sara left the room, Catherine dismissed her thoughts, thinking she had more to do than working out why her lab director appeared to get more beautiful as she grew older.

Hanging around in the nearly empty office, Greg Sanders was as exhausted as he'd been in his memory. He felt like he'd work for days; he had worked most of the night and then spent time talking on the phone with Morgan before getting a few hours of sleep.

His eyes went to the sign on the door.

Lab Director. He grinned and then gave a soft chuckle. Made him feel old, he thought. The office was cleaned out, a new desk and several chairs had gone in. A map hung on the wall. It would not take long for Sara Sidle to make it her own.

Even before it had been official, Sara had been the informal supervisor while D.B. had let things slide as he mourned his long-time friend and co-worker's death. When he announced he was leaving, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

When all hell broke out—Ecklie shot in Lady Heather's house, Hodges sent that message about contaminating cases, Sara had been the one who kept her cool—thus everyone else in the lab did too.

Leaning against the desk, Greg surveyed the room remembering the shelves Grissom had stacked with experiments and specimens. The place had always had a smell—what he had named "a Grissom smell" meaning the man was cooking or dissolving or letting something rot. The memories faded as he visualized Sara's office; she'd probably grow sprouts where D.B. had grown mushrooms. And it would smell of—his nose twitched—lavender or rosemary, he thought. And fresh air.

Walking to the framed map, he wondered why Sara had chosen a map—then realized it was a map of the Pacific Ocean. Now he knew.

Frustration and anger stirred as he thought about Gil Grissom. The man had arrived with Nick, stayed seven or eight days, and had left as quickly and quietly as he'd come. Greg knew where Grissom had stayed; he knew Sara had slept with him. Not that she'd told—it was the look on her face.

Then when they had dinner at Sara's, Grissom was overdoing everything. From pouring drinks to placing food on the table, he was the front-and-center host with the most as if he lived in the house all the time. Greg had listened as Grissom told the group about his work in the Pacific, all-the-while thinking of the days when Sara's sadness had been so profound to be painful to all of them.

Leaning closer, Greg smiled when he found a small, faint line of dots from Vegas to Los Angeles. Someone had marked a route with a pencil. He would never understand love; he did know Sara had never looked twice at another man.

Stepping back from the map, Greg turned his thoughts to Morgan. She had left town with her mother for awhile. A month, she'd said. When she returned, they would decide their future. A promise both had made.

Just then, Sara appeared in the doorway, two people trailing behind her. Her relief was obvious when she came into her office, closing the door behind her.

"Thank you for being here, Greg!" She took one of the chairs, waving for him to do the same. "I can sit here and let my mind go blank for five minutes." She laughed as she twirled the chair left then right. "You know, now I know why a sofa was in here."

Greg sat in the other chair, laughing, as he said, "Grissom didn't have a sofa."

"No, but Brass did and Grissom used it." Leaning back, she placed her feet on the desk and closed her eyes. "Just sit with me—I need a full minute of quiet time."

He let three minutes pass before saying, "You don't want to be lab director, do you?"

Not even opening her eyes, she asked, "Is it that obvious?"

"Not at all. You actually cut quite a figure at the memorial service—I think everyone there noticed you."

One eye opened. "Yeah? I was in Catherine's shadow—no one noticed anyone else."

Greg chuckled. "That's what you think. Catherine's old news in the," another chuckle, "in the UST department. Every man there noticed you."

Sara moved her feet to the floor and sat up, looking at him. "Greg, I'm too old for this. And what is UST, anyway?"

"Unresolved sexual tension. Means you're hot."

"Oh, dear God. I am not hot—I don't feel hot. I never felt 'hot' in that way."

"You've always been hot." When he said that, he moved away, ready for his buddy's fist punch, laughing as his chair rolled across the floor.

Instead, Sara laughed, shook her head at his laughter. Frowning, she said, "You should have been showing your respect and you were checking out the women!"

"I wasn't checking out the women—I was checking out who was looking at you—other than Grissom." Turning the chair in circles, he moved closer to her. "Tell me—how is Grissom? Honestly, I can't believe he left you."

Sara smiled. "He has his work—his boat—he loves being on the ocean. He knows where I am—he'll come home."

Leaning forward, Greg placed his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and rested his chin on his knuckles. He said, "I want you to be happy, Sara. Morgan and I think we can be happy together—she says she is going to quit her job, go back to school—be a teacher." His mouth twisted. "I should have let her tell you."

"I'm glad you did." She leaned back and closed her eyes again. "I think the past few weeks have caught up with me."

"I'll leave. Give you some quiet time."

Sara chuckled, saying, "I'm at work—and there's a ton of work to do." She stood, as did Greg. "How is everyone doing? The new guys?"

"Good—three at one time. That's never happened, but it was a good idea to pair each one with someone with experience."

With that, he left her. Something still niggled in his brain; not just Sara's admission about her new job, but something else.

Nick Stokes received a message from the harbor police when Gil Grissom arrived at his boat which had been moored at the San Diego harbor for nearly two weeks. Surprised, Nick had thought Grissom would stay in Vegas for a while.

Sitting at Sara's table, he'd been pleased to see everyone and happy when Sara and Grissom were obviously happy together. He had never understood why the man had left and never returned. They all knew Sara was a one-man woman; she never showed the slightest interest in any other man.

During the meal, everyone talked and laughed, rehashing old stories and shared experiences. They had talked about good times, none of the shared sadness they had lived through. Even Brass had been jovial, in good spirits, as some of their talk went back years. He—Brass—had talked about Annie Kramer in fond terms and every one of them had teased him about finding a love life.

Not one person had mentioned Grissom and Sara, both appeared to be as much in love as they had in—Nick actually counted up in years, surprised to realize it had been nearly six years since this group had been together.

In unguarded moments, he had seen Sara look at Grissom, holding her eyes on him as he talked or watched Grissom as he kept his hand on Sara for much longer than necessary. They were lovers; he was sure of it.

He'd watch Catherine and Sara during Ecklie's memorial service, hiding his grin when he realized he was mesmerized by Sara. Sure, he had always known Sara had an unusual beauty—not flamboyant like Catherine—but a subtle, understated beauty. And wearing a black suit—something about a woman wearing black—and then he noticed he was not the only man who followed the new lab director's movements.

Sara had been the one to drive him to the airport. And she looked radiant. And she had promised to visit him in San Diego—soon.

He sat back and pondered Grissom's arrival in San Diego. The man did have a boat—maybe he was running it up the coast. Reaching for the stack of paperwork on his desk, he shook his head. He would never understand love.

Sara was oblivious to most of the thoughts of her friends and co-workers. She'd had a very busy and bizarre two weeks in her new job. Her ex-husband arriving had been a surprise which turned into a good thing—more than a good thing. They had confirmed their love; she smiled at that thought.

Gil Grissom said he had been celibate during their separation but he had not lost his magic touch. When he presented her with panties and pajamas and one piece teddies, she'd laughed so hard she cried. And then they had made love for hours.

Hours. Her body actually tingled thinking about what they had done—and would do again in the future. They had made love on every bed in the house. Flushing as she remembered how Grissom had loved every inch of her body—from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. Knowing he loved her as he did made it easier for him to leave—at least she didn't cry as she left him at the airport.

She had come to terms with his desire to continue working on his boat; he enjoyed it, she knew. Just as they had done in the past, they were going to commute. The distance between Vegas and LA was short. Frequent flights—as soon as she settled into this new job—she would fly to meet him.

They didn't make specific plans.

She shifted files on the desk; the paperwork was never-ending. Wiping her hand across her eyes, she knew what she wanted. A nap. For some reason she could not shake the exhaustion; even after hours of sleep, she felt tired and sleepy.

After six phone calls, two visitors, and signing her name to a dozen forms, Sara leaned over, placed her head on the desk and closed her eyes.

 _A/N: Now, take 30 seconds and leave a comment! You've come this far, we'd like to hear from you! Only one or two chapters to go!_


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: _Sorry for the delay-one more chapter to follow and bring this one to a close. Thank you to all of you who have stayed with us!_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 35**

Gil Grissom had gotten up early to enjoy the clear, cool morning, sitting on an open deck overlooking a small canal; by the time he'd finished reading a day-old paper, he had finished his coffee and a slightly stale blueberry muffin. For a few minutes, he stretched his legs and marveled at his mother's investment in a place that had been on the edge of urban destruction. It had come a long way since then; now it was one of the most sought after, pricey neighborhoods left with water access. They would probably sell it, he thought.

They—he smiled—all of his thoughts included "they", he realized. He checked his phone, found no message, and packed a cooler, giving his living quarters a slap and a promise before closing the door and taking the stairs with quick steps. He felt better than he had in months and, as he started the car, he grinned at his own satisfaction with the turn of his life.

Sometimes, like today, he couldn't believe how lucky he was. He freely admitted how he'd screwed up, running away when the love of his life wanted to be with him. He had apologized so frequently that Sara had finally stopped him with dire threats. Determined to make up for lost time, he had spent two weeks closing down his nomadic life. He had packed boxes, found places to donate the few pieces of furniture he would not move to Vegas. He had talked to several realtors about the building where he lived.

Looking up at tall palm trees, silhouettes against a clear blue morning sky, majestic in their way but, he thought, really just tall, skinny trees, dramatic in location but useless for anything. He liked living in Los Angeles, or rather, living on the city's edge where one had the illusion of living in a small town.

It did not take long for him to thread through a neighborhood and reach his destination and park his car. Here the strong, salty air tinged with the smell of wildlife—fish, otters, a few seals—met his nose. Hauling the cooler to the boat, he settled in to clean. He had already spent several days removing personal belongings and now he cleaned and polished prior to meeting a boat broker.

He would sell his boat. If Sara wanted to live in Vegas, he was going to live there too.

An hour later, he glanced at an approaching figure; the bright mid-day sun's reflection caused him to pull a double-take, and then, surprised, he dropped the buoy fender back into the water.

Strolling toward him, a tentative smile on her face was Sara. Unexpected; he had talked to her hours earlier—she had been at work—in Vegas. When she reached the boat, he extended his arms to assist her.

Completely surprised, he was at a loss for words but words didn't matter as she returned his embrace—a hold that grew longer as he cupped her face between his hands, pushed his fingers into her hair, and held her head in place and kissed the corner of her mouth.

Then he gently angled her face and kissed her the way he had dreamed; as he deepened the kiss, she responded. After a slow dance with hers, he withdrew his tongue enough to touch the tip of it to the center of her upper lip, just inside, just a flick. Her breath stopped, then started again, hard, fast. He sent his tongue deep again.

They made adjustments for jackets, her bag, until they fit together like puzzle pieces. Her hand came between them. Her thumb touched his chin before she kissed it lightly. Then they were kissing again, frantic and breathless.

A wave caused the boat to knock against the dock. Sara arched into him as he steadied his feet, finally lifting his face away from hers.

With a smile, he asked, "What are you doing here?"

Making a quiet laugh, she pointed back to the parking lot, saying, "I left a cab there—I wasn't sure you'd be here."

He said, "Wait right here—do you have more—more stuff—a bag?"

She nodded and he quickly climbed out of the boat and headed up the ramp. A few minutes later, he returned, rolling a small suitcase.

"You didn't bring enough," he said as he climbed back into the boat.

Sara looked around the deck of the boat. "I don't think you have room for much."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her into another hug. "What are you doing here? Our plans were—I was coming to Vegas next week." Pulling away from her but keeping his hands firmly in place, he added, "How'd you know where to find me?"

"I went by the house first—and—and—Tom was opening up the gallery. He said you were probably here and gave me the address." Softly, she laughed, "He also offered to unlock the place upstairs."

Grissom chuckled and kiss her again. "Thank God he didn't. The place is a mess—at least I can explain when we get there."

Sara's thumb rubbed against the stubble on his cheek. "I needed to see you, Gil."

Softly, he said, "I'm happy you came."

Slowly, they parted, keeping their hands together as he showed her the deck, the small cabin, the equipment. At some point, he handed her a bottle of water.

She protested when he told her of his plans to sell the boat.

"I'm going to live with you," he said with a grin. She gave him an unabashed smile and kissed his cheek. Like besotted teenagers, they hugged each other, kissed, and smiled because they could.

After a while, they emptied the cooler of the cheese sandwiches and apples he'd packed. And talked—of her work, his plans to move, about weather and sports—light, easy conversation.

He had pulled out a folding chair for her while he sat on the cooler. "Tell me why you are here?"

She looked beautiful; a blush on her face that was more than a few hours in the sun but in her eyes, he recognized an unspoken worry.

He said, "What's up?" as he took her hands in his. "Work? Or something else?"

The sigh that came caused a brief moment of alarm; yet she wasn't sad. Her head tilted upward and in that moment, he saw a glisten in her eye. A tear.

"What's wrong?"

Sara shook her head, slowly. Her chin trembled even as the edges of her mouth attempted a smile. He gripped her hands and waited.

After a long moment, she said, "I don't want to be lab director." Her eyes came to his. "I—I never really wanted the job—it—it just sort of fell in my lap when D.B. left and Nick was already gone."

Grissom's hands cradled hers and then he brought her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers before saying, "its okay. You don't have to do it."

Silence followed as Sara bit her lip and looked away. The thought crossed Grissom's mind that she and Catherine had butted heads.

When she spoke, her voice trembled. "It's not just the job." She took a deep breath and said, "I'm—I'm pregnant."

He knew what she'd said, but was as certain he had misunderstood. "Say again?"

A soft giggle, nervous or uncertain; in a whisper, she said, "I'm pregnant." Her hands twisted within his hold, but his remained tightly clasped.

"You're pregnant?"

Following his hushed words, neither Sara nor Grissom moved or said anything. The only sound was that of quiet lapping of waves against the boat.

Slowly, her face turned to his. He loosened his grip.

Placing his hands on the cooler, he pushed himself up and then reached for her hands and pulled her up. He cradled her face between his hands, letting his eyes rove over her face. She closed her eyes and let her neck go limp so his hands supported her head.

Her lashes were wet. Gently, he leaned toward her and kissed each eyelid before wiping a thumb across her lashes and placing her head on his shoulder. He said, "Pregnant—after..." He chuckled, holding her tightly against his body as she leaned into the fit that was always natural for them. "You've seen your doctor?"

He felt a nod.

"And what did she say?"

"That I was definitely pregnant." Sara pulled away so she could look at his face. "Honestly, I thought—I thought I was passed this—I—I had made peace with not ever being a mother—and—and this might not last." Her voice wavered on her last words. Tears formed in her eyes. Blinking her eyes, unsuccessful at dispersing tears, she said, "Two tests—both times HCG levels were—indicated pregnancy."

Grissom searched to remember; there had been a time when he knew what HCG meant in pregnancy. Deciding it did not matter now, he pulled her close again.

"We will get through this—whatever happens." And then he laughed. A spontaneous blurt of his own edginess but it relieved an under lying tension. "I guess all that celibacy did something."

Sara gave him a dubious look, took a deep breath, and laughed. "I thought it was the new job—I was tired all the time. And then—after you left—I—my period didn't come." She sighed, moved her hand to his face and let her fingers trace from his ear to his chin.

Grissom smiled and kissed her. He said, "Let's celebrate—go out on the boat with me. We can get some food—I know a place that's perfect and we can dock right at the restaurant."

In a few minutes, they stowed everything on the deck in the cabin. Grissom pulled the fenders inside the boat, and both climbed the ladder to the standing bridge.

As the boat picked up speed, Sara slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, steadying her body against his.

"A sunset cruise," Grissom said and waved a hand at the disappearing sun.

The boat heaved several times as it made its way through surf that seemed to explode spumey waves into a misty wall. A rocky jetty followed the coastline as Grissom turned the boat into the setting sun.

The sky, delicate in its yellow and orange, streaked with purple and blue, glowed, reflecting into the ocean and the sun sparked orange flames as it sank along the horizon.

They hurtled along with the careless speed natural to one who was familiar with the signs and lights of the area. As they passed a few boats, Grissom pointed to landmarks as the city sparkled with light.

Sara watched him. Without saying a word, she recognized his sensation of being freed from the pull of land. At some point, he slowed the boat and showed her where he was living, not on the coast, but a few blocks inland, among a web of small canals.

She looked into his eyes and saw the love in their blueness that had given her purpose for so many years. He smiled as she did. For the first time in years, she actually thought "Everything is going to be fine."

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! Can you take a few seconds to send us a comment, review, or a 'hello'! One more chapter coming soon!_


	36. Chapter 36

_**A/N: First-thank you to the wonderful, caring readers who have stayed with us and a special place is waiting in heaven for those who have reviewed, sending us encouragement, thoughts, and smiles during this marathon!**_

 _ **This chapter brings to an end our story of Gil Grissom's Romance (parts 1 and 2). We honestly never imagined it would write itself into this many words and chapters.**_

 _ **We've also brought our story to an ending that mirrors what the creator of CSI said about the future of Sara and Grissom!**_

 _ **Read on...and remember...review!**_

 **Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2**

 **Chapter 36**

That night, after a dock side meal, after a slow drift along the coast and a quick drive back to the apartment above the gallery, Grissom, with a bit of embarrassment, showed Sara the place he'd called home for nearly two years.

Different from the surrounding commercial areas, the neighborhood was quiet, with sidewalks narrowed by plants; a small café was shuttering its patio as they passed and both people working waved and acknowledged Grissom by name. A few minutes later, he was working a combination lock on a gated entry to a flight of stairs.

Once the gate was opened, Grissom took Sara's hand, apologizing for the state of the upstairs apartment, and led her up the stairs. At the top, another lock stopped them for a few seconds and then he switched on a light.

"It's not really put together," he said as he guided Sara inside.

She looked around in amazement. From where she stood, she could see an open living area with a compact kitchen to the right. Large windows, uncovered, lined walls on three sides with double doors in the middle of one wall. A door on her left led to one bedroom; another door was probably another bedroom. Furnishings appeared comfortable but were sparse—a table with two wooden chairs, two upholstered chairs, and bookcases everywhere else. Books, papers, rolled up maps were stacked in three of the chairs, on the table, and falling out of over-filled bookcases.

Grissom disappeared with her bag and rushed back into the room, moving books from one of the chairs. He said, "I told you it was—it is a mess. A lot of the time, I'd stay overnight on the boat."

"And your mother bought this?" Sara asked as she wandered to different windows. She wasn't sure what she'd expected to find but this was a surprise.

Smiling, Grissom said, "She did. Around the time the area was in a real decline—almost demolished, but enough people protested and spent the time and money—so now, its—it has become quite an investment."

"I can see the water—the canal."

"Just across the side walk—we get tourists walking around and a few small boats, but mostly it's quiet."

He headed to the kitchen and took two bottles of water from the refrigerator, carrying one to Sara. They moved to the padded chairs and sat in silence for long minutes. Grissom leaned back in the chair and covered his eyes with his hand.

"I got up early—I'm sure you did." He waved a hand in the direction of one of the two doors. "I—I put your bag in the bedroom—the bathroom is between the bedrooms." He chuckled, saying, "I have one bed and no sofa."

With that, Sara laughed. "I came to see you planning to sleep with you, dear."

And the way he looked at her left no doubt that sleep would be postponed for a while.

Standing, he pulled her into an embrace; a kiss lasted until he bumped into the bed.

"This bed isn't very big."

"It's fine."

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then moved to her neck where he gently tugged on her ear lobe. Reaching under her shirt, he unclasped her bra, murmuring, "You've got on too many clothes."

He slid his hands around her and found her breasts, making a soft satisfying sound as his fingertips played over her nipples.

"Are you sure this is okay?"

A soft giggle from Sara. "Yes. Direct question 'can I have sex?' and answer 'by all means—as often as possible' so that's why I came." Another giggle. "One of the reasons."

Hands closed around her breasts, tenderly. Grissom said, "I don't want to hurt—you or anything."

"You won't."

Need and desire unfurled as her mouth sought his, each greedy as the other. He managed to get out of his shoes and pants, sliding off her shirt as his feet pushed away his pants.

She slid fingers into his hair and for a time, their panting moans were the only sounds in the room.

"The bed," breathless, whispering as he maneuvered them around the end of the bed, kicking books away from their feet.

Sara quickly kicked off her pants and shoes as they fell into the bed. Even as their mouths met, he pushed her panties off. Hands skimmed over her breasts; his lips moved past her ribs until he bent to nuzzle the triangle of hair between her legs. By the time he parted her thighs and got between them, his tongue was making sweeping strokes around her sex.

"Gil," a gasp as she reached for him.

He rose to her, intense but his expression was one of longing. His erect penis probed, found her and, as he made a low sound, buried himself completely. His shuddering sigh became an echo of hers.

"All I've thought about," he whispered, breathing against her neck.

She clenched.

"I can't take that."

She did it again and he began to move. She arched her hips and rocked with him. He groaned, remembering his dreams were nothing to compare to the real thing.

A month later, Sara Sidle married Gil Grissom for the second time. Driving to the courthouse, Sara called several friends extending an invitation to meet them, giving fifteen minutes notice. All five made it in time and Jim Brass brought a bouquet of flowers for the bride.

He would never tell that he had taken most of the flowers from a huge vase in the lobby of his workplace. Sara was thrilled. Grissom looked sheepish.

The newlyweds did not leave home for a honeymoon, having more pressing things to plan and do.

A week later, Sara submitted her resignation to Sheriff Willows, offering one name as her replacement.

Later, Grissom asked, "What did she think about Greg?"

"She'll put him in—Catherine's smart and she knows Greg is smart."

"Did you tell her anything—about—you know," he said, nodding his head toward her belly.

"No announcement until five months."

Grissom dropped his book on the floor and rolled to her side. Placing his hand on her stomach, he gently stroked a slight rise above her pubis. He said, "I'd think Catherine might guess."

"She didn't say anything—I think she was surprised by my resignation and then when I told her we were moving, she was pretty much speechless."

He chuckled. "It takes a lot to make Catherine speechless."

As things turned out, Sara's fifth month of pregnant was the same week of two other events; Greg was named lab director only days after Catherine accepted the position as Sheriff of Clark County until the next election which gave her two years to plan her campaign.

As Sara had already planned a party, the group of old friends met to celebrate promotions and new directions—and to hear for the first time that Sara Sidle Grissom was well along in a healthy, viable pregnancy.

Her way of announcement came when she stood, saying, "We've got another big event to celebrate." A broad smile on her face, she opened her concealing jacket to reveal a tight fitting stretchy shirt. When she turned to reveal her silhouette, arching her back and throwing her arms behind her, there was no doubt what she was showing off.

With open-mouthed surprise still on faces, Grissom added to their astonishment by saying: "And we're having two—healthy twins—boy and girl."

With shouts of surprise, back-slapping of Grissom, questions about pregnancy to Sara, it was several minutes before anyone counted backward.

Greg was first, saying, "This—this happened right after you returned?" He pointed first at Sara and then at Grissom.

By the time Sara went into the hospital, a month before her official due date, she had experienced an incredibly healthy, high risk pregnancy. She was meticulous in following recommendations and care instructions; she had gone on official maternity leave at seven months, and lived in a kind of surreal state. Sleeping late, napping in the afternoon, resting under a shaded awning, walking along the streets of their neighborhood, days and weeks passed as her body changed before her eyes.

And she and Grissom made life-changing decisions. Sara had seen the peace Grissom found on the water; she insisted he keep the boat. With contacts among environmentalists along the coast, he worked from home as he searched for the right group, for the right cause.

Deciding to move from Vegas, to a place near the coast was decided when Sara decided. "Full circle," she said thoughtfully.

They called the Davis law firm and set in motion wheels to return to the area where Sara had lived as a small child, the rural, protected area north of San Francisco. The old attorney who had safe-guarded a trust with consistent integrity had a deep passion for conservation; he found the Grissom's a new home in weeks. And he'd been the one to point Gil Grissom to a small environmental group who needed a person with a boat.

They sold the building Betty Grissom had purchased twenty-five years before her grandchildren were born. The house in Vegas was getting a new owner—owners; the new lab director and his soon-to-be bride had made an offer which was immediately taken and settled with handshakes between current and prospective owners.

As Sara settled into a room, hooked to monitors for a few days before delivery, she had one major issue to resolve. A name.

She had, with quiet approval of her husband, decided her daughter's name would be Elizabeth. A name for their son was still—undecided. After viewing their first sonogram, Grissom had given the names "Bean" and "Bud" to the fluttering little forms; "Bud" stuck.

"He's not going to be called 'Bud'," Sara insisted.

Grissom and Jim Brass had a short laugh until she threatened to have them thrown out of the room.

"And I'm thinking about Gilbert James—or James Gilbert," Sara said as she shifted pillows in an attempt to shut them out of her view.

With that, Brass said, "James Gilbert sounds just about perfect!"

At the same moment, Grissom said, "Not Gilbert—he needs his own name."

From the bed, Sara mumbled, "I think Gregory Nickolas is perfect."

Much huffing and puffing and chuckling came from the two men.

Later, in the quiet hours of the night, Grissom, sitting beside the bed, holding the hand of his uncomfortable wife, read from a favorite book of poems and sonnets. He stopped in mid-sentence.

"I'm not asleep," Sara whispered.

A quiet chuckle. "I didn't think you were. I've been thinking—about names. I like William. It's a good name for our son."

Sara squeezed his hand. "Elizabeth will be probably be shortened to Beth or Lizzy or—or Betty…"

"Not Betty."

She laughed. "So are you okay if William becomes—Will?"

"Will Grissom. Beth Grissom." Lifting her hand, he kissed her fingers. "I think Will and Beth will be perfect."

Nearly a year later, on a beautiful day of soft spring air and chilly sun, Gil Grissom experienced an overwhelming sense of satisfaction as he surveyed all within his view. Three flowering trees provided weak shade for two plastic swings, a blue and a red one. Looking beyond the trees, as far as his eyes could see stretched a sheet of yellow wildflowers—goldfields, he had learned the name—with the reds and oranges of wind poppies and Indian paintbrush interspersed among the yellow.

They had been in the house for six months and it had quickly become where they belonged. A home adjunct to acres of California's public land, it was a prize find for real estate and one well-suited to a growing family. Grissom's boat which he used to survey the coastline for flora and fauna—the biota of fifty miles—was moored a few miles away, among local pleasure and fishing boats.

Rocking back on his heels in a rush of happpiness, he kept his gaze on the gently sloping prospect. In the mid-distance, the delicate pink of a redbud tree appeared to arch downward; all as still as a painting. Peace. It was hard to come by.

And then, the quiet stillness was broken with high pitched squeals, delighted giggles of babies and the soft murmur of his wife's response. He turned from the pleasant view of nature to the beauty of his family and hurried to the shade of the porch.

"Come on, little buddies. It's spring time." He kissed Sara and lifted his son into his arms. His daughter was babbling sounds as she released her mother's finger, making her own way into the backyard, headed to the swings.

"This way, Beth!" He called as he lifted the latch on a gate.

In the way of those learning to walk, the toddler eventually made her way to the gate. When his wife walked through the gate, he gave her another kiss on her cheek.

"You are beautiful, dear."

Turning her head so her mouth met his, she returned his kiss. Shifting his child to his hip, he extended his hand; his eyes twinkled. Sara was more beautiful than ever; motherhood suited her, he thought.

"Let's find some flowers."

 ** _A/N: As always, we'd appreciate hearing from you! Keep GSR alive! Leave a few words and maybe-one day, you'll get a notice of another new story about GSR. Thank you!_**


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